


Artificial Nocturne

by twilights_blue



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Inception Big Bang Challenge, M/M, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:30:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilights_blue/pseuds/twilights_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tired of getting stabbed in the back, Eames goes out in search of a partner that can't be anything but loyal: an android. He comes across Arthur, a droid with an unknown past and a slew of programming quirks. Together, they take the world of dreamshare by storm. It's perfect, until it isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artificial Nocturne

**Author's Note:**

> I started this big bang with something entirely different in mind, rehashed it about five times, and then turned to this. What can I say, my mind likes Inception and sci-fi.
> 
> I want to give a big thank you to lezzerlee, who both illustrated and beta'd this beast. [Her art is marvelous](http://lezzerlee.livejournal.com/25588.html) and I am so glad that we got paired up for this challenge. I couldn't have done it without her.

Eames was running a risk, coming to Prague. He was a wanted man in most of Europe, and the Czech Republic was hardly an exception. In fact, he was pretty sure he had more gangs that wanted his head in this country than in any other part of the EU. But when you needed the best, you tended to go where the best was. Which was why he was leaning against a crumbling cement wall, watching an android work while Ikeda watched him.

Ikeda was a small slip of a woman who used to work for a robotics company located in Kyoto. She became notorious in the criminal world after stealing every single prototype her company had been working on and dispersing them on the black market. She made millions in a handful of weeks, and even now still smuggled some of the best droid tech out there. So while Eames wouldn’t trust her farther than he could throw her, he was still willing to deal with Ikeda for something this important.

The droid blinked, losing its thousand-yard stare as it logged off of its wireless connection. She turned to the paper on the tiny desk in front of her and wrote something down.

"There," the android said, handing the paper over. "I believe you'll find that to be satisfactory."

Eames looked over the scrap of paper, face blank. After a moment he looked back up at the android and, maintaining eye contact, ripped the note into small pieces. Tossing them aside, he said, "Thank you for your time," and left the room.

Ikeda followed him few seconds later, clearly pissed. "What the hell, Eames?" she said. "That's the tenth droid in a row you've decided against."

Eames shrugged a shoulder, looking through his pockets for cigarettes. "It wasn't what I wanted."

"And what is it that you want, exactly?"

Eames found a cigarette hiding in the inside pocket of his coat. He brought it up to his lips and lit it. He took a drag and, on the smoke-filled exhale, said, "Something better."

"That's the best I've got, Eames," Ikeda said, voice even but still tinged with irritation. "Take it or leave it."

Eames quirked an eyebrow, placed his cigarette back between his lips, and turned to go. "'Guess I'll leave it, then. Maybe Santoro has something better than—"

"Wait."

Eames stopped and looked over his shoulder. Ikeda was where he had left her, looking sullen and defeated. Ikeda said, "I have another one. Better."

"Do you now," Eames tone was nothing but skeptical. "And why haven't you offered to show it to me before?"

"He's a hot item. Very hot.”

"If he does his job, and does it well, then it'll outweigh whatever attention he'll attract." Eames crushed out his barely-smoked cigarette and turned back to Ikeda. "Show me."

Ikeda walked further down the long, concrete hallway, Eames following closely. The doors they passed by were of heavy iron, locked and without windows. This area was far less cared for than the others, with every other light flickering and dust and cobwebs clinging to the walls and ceiling. If anyone broke into this place, they’d definitely take this neglected hallway as something inconsequential.

"The way I got this one is," Ikeda gestured vaguely, "difficult to explain. The guy who sold it to me couldn’t tell me much, save for a rumor or two. All I know is that he _might_ come from one of the bigger robotics companies, and _might_ be an unheard-of prototype. But that’s all I’ve got.

"He's smart," Ikeda continued. "Extremely logical and quick at it. There isn't a language, human or machine, that he doesn't know. He's good with details and precision work. A researcher's assistant for sure. Ah, here we are." She stopped in front of a rusted door and fished out a ring of keys.

"He sounds interesting," Eames said as Ikeda searched for the right key. "I don't see why he's such a hot item, though."

Ikeda shrugged. "It was never outright said to me that he was. But some of his behavior is… interesting. And he's missing most of his core permanent memory. When I asked for his make and model, he couldn't give it. He only knows and goes by one name."

"And that would be?"

"Arthur." Ikeda unlocked the door and swung it open wide.

The room on the other side of the door was small and undecorated. There was a narrow bed pushed against one wall and a desk against the other, but that was the only furniture present. There was a man sitting cross-legged on the bed, book propped open across his knees. His head was bent, and his long dark hair obscured his face. The only movement he made was when he lifted his hand to turn the page.

Eames studied the man for a moment before looking back at Ikeda. Ikeda jerked her head at the door. Getting the message, Eames went in by himself.

The man was aware of his entrance immediately, hand going still on the book's page. He lifted his head, movements slow and measured, and soon enough Eames found himself looking into dark, wary eyes.

"Hello," the man said, voice deep and giving away nothing.

"Hi," Eames returned. He smiled a little and tried to project the fact that he wasn't a threat, keeping his body language loose and relaxed. "Arthur, is it?"

The man—the android—nodded. "I am called that, yes."

"I've come here with the interest in buying you," Eames said. Getting to the point was the easiest when it came to droids. Small-talk was largely painful and pointless. "What do you think of that?"

Arthur tilted his head the slightest bit, eyes still fixed on Eames. "As I have no say in the matter, my opinion on it is inconsequential."

Eames' eyebrows lifted. That was very close to talking back. Droids were programmed to be obedient and soft-spoken. The slightest hint of an attitude was enough of an excuse for a dismantling.

"I didn't ask if your opinion mattered," Eames said. "I asked what you thought."

Arthur was quiet, staring. He looked away. "It doesn't matter," he said, "to me."

"Very good." Eames stood near the edge of the bed closest to Arthur. "Before I agree to buy you, however, I have a bit of an interview process."

Arthur looked back up at him. "Yes?"

Eames dug into his trousers pocket until he came up with a note folded into quarters. "There is a name and social security number on that paper," Eames said as he handed it to Arthur. "You are to find information about that person's current whereabouts _without_ doing anything that would bring attention from any companies or governments."

Arthur took the note in his hand, fingers tracing its edge almost absently. He didn't open it, and instead asked, "May I find this information in any way I choose?"

"As long as you don't get caught, yes." Eames sat on the bed, giving his watch a pointed look. "Begin."

Instead of leaning back and wirelessly accessing the Internet, Arthur stood at Eames’ prompt. He moved to sit at the desk and flipped open the laptop Eames had failed to notice earlier. Without glancing at Eames or anything else, he began to type, fingers almost blurs as he worked the keys.

“See?” Ikeda said, sidling up to Eames as Arthur worked. “This is one of the behavioral anomalies. He’s more likely to physically go online than use his own wireless signal.”

“Have you seen him access any information by himself?”

“Yeah. Had to make it a command, though.”

“Huh.” Eames studied the perfectly straight line of Arthur’s back, wondering what the droid was hiding in his head. He was getting more and more fascinating by the second.

It was quiet as Arthur worked, the only sound the soft unrelenting tapping of the laptop's keys. Fifteen minutes later, the typing stopped. "I'm done."

Eames approached the desk. He was impressed with Arthur's speed. Most droids could find information in that same amount of time, but that was with their own signal, processing with their own brains. For Arthur to find the information that fast using a laptop was something to be noted.

"You sure you've got the right answer?" Eames asked.

"I checked my information three different ways," Arthur said. "I'm sure."

"Excellent. You can write it down and hand it to me." If Arthur was accurate about the man's whereabouts, then he didn't want Ikeda to hear it.

Arthur quirked an eyebrow—another oddity, that much expression from a droid with such a simple motion—but didn't comment as he pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote something down. He handed it to Eames without folding it. In neat, draftsman's handwriting was: _HE IS BUYING A DROID IN PRAGUE AND IS STANDING IN FRONT OF ME._

Eames studied the the note, glanced up at Arthur, and smiled. Arthur didn’t return the expression, but Eames thought there was something like amusement in his eyes. Whoever programmed him was good.

Eames turned to Ikeda. “I’ll take him.”

~*

“So,” Arthur said once they were in the car. “What made you decide to buy a droid?”

Eames tapped an idle finger against the steering wheel. “You were able to locate my whereabouts through an alias that is technically dead. I’m sure you can make a guess as to what I do for a living.”

“You’re a con artist,” Arthur said immediately. "An extractor who uses dreamshare, to be more exact.”

“Very good.” Eames started the car and drove away from Ikeda’s warehouse. “How familiar are you with dreamsharing, extraction specifically?”

"Besides that it's originally a military technology and that extraction is illegal in almost every country, very little."

"Well," Eames said. "Extraction itself is easy enough to explain: a team of criminals break into a person's mind via dreamshare and find information. They either sell that information to the highest bidder or give it to the person who originally hired them. Either way, a neat little profit is made by every member of the team.”

Eames glanced at Arthur, making sure he was paying attention. "Everyone in an extraction team specializes in something different. Each part is essential in pulling off the con and getting the information."

"So forgery is a dreamshare specialty," Arthur said. It wasn't a question.

Eames let out a surprised laugh. "You got that in your research, did you?"

"Yes."

"It wasn't essential to finding out my identity."

"I was curious."

Eames didn't respond. Curiosity was essential in an android—their AI was what made them so versatile and useful. But that curiosity was normally constrained to fit whatever task they were given. Deviating from their original command was unexpected and unprecedented.

"There's really more to you than meets the eye, isn't there," Eames said.

He didn't take his eyes off the road, but he still saw the way Arthur went still next to him, the almost-human tension in his frame.

"I'm an android," Arthur said after a moment. "I am of original make, but I'm still just an android."

"Of course you are," Eames said softly. He paused, then said, "The team members used for an extraction are the extractor himself, the point man, the architect, the forger, and, sometimes, the chemist. The formula rarely deviates unless the extraction is expected to be horribly difficult."

Arthur's shoulders relaxed as Eames changed the subject, and Eames went on to describe each team member's job, and how extraction itself worked. Arthur took it all in without comment, looking straight ahead as Eames talked.

Eames paused after explaining the basic features of projections and subconscious security, and Arthur took advantage of the quiet to say, "None of this explains what I'm supposed to do."

"Curious, are you?"

"You spent over a quarter of a million in US currency on me. You must have a good reason."

"It's a pretty basic reason, if I'm to be honest. Point men are common, but very good, very loyal ones are hard to find. I've been stabbed in the back one too many times, so I figured I'd take matters into my own hands."

"I'm to be your point man," Arthur said, voice barely lifting at the end of his sentence, teasing at but not really making it a question.

"Yes. You'll be compensated, of course."

"Androids don't need an income."

"They do if I want them to pass as human." Eames parked the car in front of his hotel. "Everyone will consider us to be a team, and as far as I'm concerned, that's fine. I don't plan to correct them, and neither should you.”

Arthur didn’t respond, looking down at his hands with a slight frown. Eames nudged at him. "Now come on," he said. "I've got to set up your ID and passport, and after that we've got a plane to catch."

Eames got out of the car and headed into the hotel. A second later he heard the passenger door open and close, followed by quiet footsteps. Eames smiled but didn't look back.

~*

Arthur looked overwhelmed with everything at the airport. He stood out of the way of the rushing crowds, watching with sharp eyes. Eames, amused by the droid's fascination, didn't say anything as he checked both of them in.

"Terminal F," Eames said as he walked back to Arthur, handing him his boarding pass. "We've got just enough time to get through security, so let's not dawdle."

They were quiet as they walked toward the checkpoint. Arthur was still looking at everything, but also trying not to show his interest. Eames glanced at him and then away. "Never been in an airport before?"

"I have," Arthur said. "It's been a while."

"As long as you don't do anything to bring attention to yourself, you should be all right."

Arthur nodded. "You mentioned security."

"I did."

"As you plan to pass me off as human," Arthur said, "I'm going to assume that means you do not have papers declaring me to be robotic in origin."

"That would be correct, yes."

"Then how—"

Eames cut him off with a small gesture. "Trust me, Arthur. I've got this."

Arthur gave him a puzzled look, but Eames shook his head. They joined the line for the checkpoint. "If we're going to work together," Eames said, keeping his voice quiet, "then we need to learn to trust each other."

They both remained silent as they reached the front of the line. The guard frowned at them and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Eames gave him the papers in his hand.

"My mate here's got a condition," Eames said, jerking a thumb at Arthur. "Plate in his head. No scans for him, doctor's orders."

The guard gave the papers Eames held a cursory glance before looking at Arthur. "Why does he not tell me himself?" the guard asked in heavily-accented English.

"Missing half his brain, isn't he? Doesn't talk much for himself these days."

Arthur's shoulders went up the slightest bit at that comment. Before Eames could even start worrying about Arthur saying something that would compromise them, the guard nodded. "No invasive scans," the guard said. "But his things will be looked over thoroughly."

"Cheers."

Eames gestured at Arthur to follow, and they both moved to go through the scanners. The metal detector pinged when Arthur went through, but Eames flashed the papers again and they were allowed through with a dismissive hand wave. They were out and heading for their terminal in ten minutes flat.

"That," Arthur said once they were a safe distance from the checkpoint, "was alarmingly easy."

"People are easy to con, Arthur," Eames said. "They see what they want to see. All you need to do is encourage that preconception, and you can get away with almost anything."

The droid was quiet, looking out into the crowds without focusing on anything. After a moment he hummed his acknowledgement. "Humans don't like change."

Eames grinned, pleased by Arthur's efforts to understand the new information. "Close. Humans don't _expect_ change. So when it happens, it catches them off guard until they either adapt to it or deny its existence entirely."

Arthur tilted his head, studying Eames. "And what category do you fit into, Mr. Eames?"

"I'm a forger who regularly waltzes through people's dreams," Eames said, matter-of-fact. "If there's anything I can do, it's adapt."

~*

The trip from Prague to Dublin was uneventful. Eames was able to settle the both of them in a hotel quickly enough, and after a quick nap to recharge and resettle himself, Eames led Arthur out into the city on foot. Half an hour later found Eames picking the lock to an abandoned bookstore, Arthur watching a few feet away.

"This is illegal," Arthur said after a moment.

"I hate to break this to you," Eames said, "but almost everything I do is illegal."

"I figured."

"Does it bother you?"

Arthur was silent, and Eames was able to concentrate on the door in front of him. Just as the tumblers gave way beneath his tools, he heard Arthur say, "No. No, it doesn't bother me."

"Good." The door swung open with only the faint creak of hinges. Eames looked back at Arthur and beckoned him with a jerk of his head. "We've got work to do."

The other half of the team was already present, chatting idly near the back of the shop. They both looked over when Eames sauntered up, Arthur a quiet shadow behind him.

"You're late," the brunette leaning against the table said. While her voice was stern, her smile was anything but. “I was starting to think I’d have to dig O’Brien out of whatever pub she’d latched onto this time just to meet our deadline.”

“And lose the opportunity to work with my charming self?” Eames said with a grin. “You’d never.”

“Keep pushing me.” She left the threat unfinished as she pushed off the table and hugged Eames. “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise.” Eames pulled away enough to gesture at Arthur. “Here’s the point, as promised.”

The brunette studied Arthur with sharp, curious eyes, approaching but still keeping a professional distance. “He’s new,” she said.

“He’s good.”

“Hm.” She stuck her hand out. “Sandra.”

Arthur took her hand and gave a single, firm shake. “Arthur. I hope that I meet expectations.”

“If Eames recommends you, I think you’ll do fine.” Sandra smiled as she stepped back and gestured at the last team member, an auburn-haired woman who had watched the greetings with quiet interest. “That’s Harriet. She’ll be our architect.”

Harriet raised a hand in greeting. “Harry will do just fine, thanks.”

Arthur nodded. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m sure,” Harry said, voice dry. She stood, stretching a little. “Can we get started, now that everyone’s here? I’m bored.”

Sandra slipped into professional mode immediately, pointing at the two chairs Eames and Arthur were to occupy. As soon as they were settled, she passed out folders packed with information to everyone and started to lay out the basis of the job.

Richard Scott was one of the board members for Ireland’s largest tech companies. Thanks to the decades he spent working his way up the company ladder, he had a knack for offering brilliant and successful ideas while staying out of trouble. Their client was done with the company’s golden boy, and wanted to take him down a peg. Rumor had it that Scott was privy to an investment opportunity that could make the company millions. If the team could find the information and hand it over to their client before Scott went public with it, then they would each become half a million dollars richer.

“Time is of the essence on this job,” Sandra said, arms crossed over her chest. “If Scott gives away the investment before we can give it to our client, we don’t get paid.”

“And most likely end up with guns chasing after us,” Harry put in.

“Exactly. I want a potential plan and maze setup asap. Keep turnaround and development as minimal as you can.” Sandra flicked a glance at Arthur. “Questions?”

No one said a word.

“Good. If you guys need help or have ideas to throw around, you know where to find me.”

Sandra gave them all a small salute and wandered farther back into the shop, where she most likely had an isolated workplace set up for herself. Harry was up and moving just as quick, muttering as she went to bury herself amongst miniature maze models. Arthur remained seated, giving Eames a curious look.

“Yes?” Eames said, figuring Arthur’s look meant he had a question.

There was a question, but it wasn’t a request for clarification or anything else Eames was expecting. “I can put my desk anywhere?”

“Yes,” Eames said, hoping that his brief moment of surprise wasn’t too noticeable.

“And there’s a laptop I can use?”

Eames handed Arthur his satchel. “Feel free to use mine,” he said. “I won’t need it until I have to start forging.”

“ _If_ you need to forge.”

Eames gave Arthur a sharp look. “You already have a plan?”

The smile Arthur gave him was very faint and gave nothing away. “I have an idea or two,” he said. “Give me an hour.”

He shouldered Eames satchel and wandered away in search of a spot to work. Eames watched him go for a moment before shaking his head and turning to the information in his hand. It wasn’t his job to wonder about the android, brilliant as he was. He’d find out what Arthur was up to soon enough, anyway. It was just a matter of time.

~*

True to his word, Arthur was moving through the shop again in an hour’s time. After a brief chat with Sandra, the team reconvened in the circle of chairs and listened to Arthur’s outline. It was ingenious and damn near airtight. Once everyone was in agreement with the overall plan, they spent the rest of the day hammering out details. By the time they all stopped for the night, they had the entire plan figured out.

Sandra walked by as Eames was packing up, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. “Good work,” she said. “I wouldn’t even know you were a rookie if I just judged you on your work today.”

The droid stiffened for a moment at the sudden, unexpected contact. As Sandra talked, he managed to relax his posture again. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. See you boys bright and early tomorrow.”

Eames called out a cheery goodbye as he ushered Arthur out of the shop and back onto the street. They set off for their hotel at a brisk pace.

“Great job,” Eames said. “Sandra has an excellent reputation. If you keep this up and this job goes as planned, you’ll be offered more jobs than you could ever handle.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “And that’s good?”

“Work is always good. It keeps you busy and relatively wealthy.” Eames shrugged. “Besides, it’s always better to have too many job offers than none at all.”

“I guess so.”

Arthur went quiet after that, and Eames didn’t push. Droids were known to withdraw a little when they were forced to process large quantities of new information in a short time. Just because Arthur drew up a brilliant plan in an hour didn’t mean he didn’t need processing time as well.

They were both silent as they went up to their room and had dinner. They were getting ready for bed when Arthur said, “I believe I have discovered a flaw in your decision to pass me off as a human.”

“Oh?” Eames said, voice garbled as he brushed his teeth. He spat into the sink and said, “And what would that be?”

“Droids don’t dream,” Arthur said from where he was sitting on his bed. “Since they don’t dream, they certainly can’t use dreamshare technology.”

“Actually,” Eames said, wandering out of the bathroom and flopping onto his bed. “I’ve accounted for that. You’re severely allergic to Somnacin.”

Arthur tilted his head. “Is that even possible?”

“In rare cases, yes. And while it’s a handicap, people with the allergy work with dreamshare just fine.”

“I’m a point man, though,” Arthur said. “I’m supposed to go under and keep you safe while you work.”

“For the more dangerous jobs, yes.” Eames shrugged a shoulder. “I doubt we’ll run into much trouble in the mind of a middle-aged board member.”

“And if we do come across a job that can’t happen without a point man?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Eames sat up to look at Arthur, who was frowning a little at the floor. “Keep your focus on the job happening right now,” he said, keeping his tone gentle. “One step at a time, yeah?”

Arthur nodded. “I’ll trust you with this,” he said slowly.

“That’s all I ask for.” Eames flopped down on his bed again, wriggling to get underneath the covers.

"I don't know about you," he said, tone half-teasing, "but I'm knackered. I'm going to sleep."

Arthur nodded, reaching over and flicking the lamp off. The room plunged into darkness. Arthur remained sitting up on his bed, facing towards the door. It appeared that he planned to keep watch for a bit, if not the entire night. "Sleep well," he said.

Eames was asleep before he could think of an appropriate response.

~*

Sandra was a big believer in working the classic nine to five, so Eames was up and moving around before eight. He ate, showered, and got halfway through dressing before he realized something was off. He paused in buckling his belt to turn and look around the room for Arthur. He studied the entire room before his eyes settled on Arthur's bed. Sure enough, there was a lump under the covers, with a wisp of dark hair the only thing visible of the droid.

Eames studied Arthur's form for a second, then approached his bed and prodded Arthur's shoulder. Arthur shifted and took in a deep breath.

"Hm," Arthur said. "What's it?"

"Time for work," Eames said. His voice had gone gentle without conscious thought. "Sandra's a stickler for timeliness."

Arthur hummed again before burying his face in his pillow and going still once more. Eames stared for a minute before moving to the foot of the bed and yanking off all of the covers.

Arthur was awake and scrambling out of bed in a flash, complaining about the cold. When he caught sight of Eames, though, he went dead still.

"Good morning," Eames said, tone bright.

"Yes," Arthur said after a beat. He straightened up and smoothed out his sleep pants. "Good morning."

"We have to be at the shop in forty-five minutes." Eames jerked his head towards the bathroom. "Be ready in thirty."

"Yes," Arthur said again. He went into the bathroom and shut the door.

Eames stayed where he was, lost in thought, until the sound of the shower running startled him back into the present. Shaking his head, he tossed the sheets aside and went back to getting dressed.

~*

"You sleep."

It was their lunch break, and Arthur and Eames were alone in the shop as Sandra and Harry went to get food. Arthur, who didn't seem to understand the concept of a break, was still working on the background history of the mark. His eyes flicked up at Eames' voice for an instant before returning to the laptop in front of him.

"Was that a statement," Arthur said, "or a question?"

"A little bit of both, I think." Eames leaned a hip against Arthur's desk. "Especially since I think I already know the answer."

"Then why ask?" The tone was bland, with just the slightest hint of defiance. Eames let it go for the more important matter at hand.

"Because I'd like to hear it from you." Eames leaned in until Arthur could see him even when he was working. "So. You sleep."

Another glance, this one a second longer than the last. "Yes."

“Why?”

“I need the sleep.”

Eames let out a small, involuntary laugh. “You must know how odd that sounds, coming from a droid,” he said.

“I do,” Arthur said. When Eames didn’t immediately ask another question, Arthur looked up again. “You desire elaboration.”

“A bit, yes.”

Arthur shook his head, the movement almost imperceptible, before returning to his work. His lips were a thin, hard line. “Instead of charging,” he said, “I sleep and eat to replenish my batteries and retain optimal performance levels.”

“Whyever would a droid be designed that way,” Eames asked.

“For blending in,” Arthur said, easy as that.

Surprised by the answer, Eames asked what he had planned on keeping to himself: “Is that why you have so many programming quirks? To blend in?”

Arthur stood and slammed his laptop closed. Gathering his things, he moved away. “Excuse me,” he said, voice cold. “I can’t work efficiently here.”

“Arthur.”

It was no use. Arthur was gone, and most likely would stay that way until it was time to leave for the day. Droid behavior might have been a new field for Eames, but he could read it just fine when it mirrored human behavior so closely. Shelving that train of thought for later, Eames took over the seat Arthur just left in order to finish some work of his own.

~*

The rest of the job went smoothly enough. Eames gave Arthur more distance and stopped remarking on every odd behavior. Instead, he made a mental catalogue of all of the droid’s quirks, from his facial tics to his preference in coffee. His personality was rich, complex. Fascinating. It was almost enough to distract Eames from the actual job. Almost.

They managed to pull the extraction within two weeks, grabbing Scott while he was in between errands. In less than twenty minutes they had the details of the investment and the name of every other person involved. Scott was dropped off at his destination with little trouble, unwise to the fact that three people had gone walking through his head.

The team regrouped at the bookshop two hours later. Sandra gave them all a satisfied smile. “Excellent work, guys,” she said as she passed out their shares for the job. “You’ll be sure to hear from me in the future.”

She gave Arthur a pointed look. “The best guys I know are going to hear about you,” she said. “So keep your phone handy.”

Eames was grinning the entire way back to the hotel. “If Sandra likes you,” he said as soon as they were back in the room, “then your name will be all over the network in a matter of days. Jobs will be pouring in from everywhere, and—“

“Here.”

Confused, Eames turned to see Arthur holding out his envelope. “My share,” Arthur said, though that was obvious enough. “You’ll want it.”

Eames looked at the envelope, to Arthur’s blank expression, and back to the envelope again. After a moment he turned away. “No.”

“No?” Arthur repeated, his head tilted in confusion.

“It’s your share,” Eames said. He threw his bag onto his bed and began packing. “I won’t demand it, nor will I take it. What you do with your earned money is up to you.”

Arthur’s brow creased. “I could,” he said slowly. “I could save enough money and run off. Does that not concern you?”

“It’s ultimately your decision, if you want to.” Eames smirked. “As long as you don’t sell me out, it doesn’t matter to me. Trust, remember?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, voice a faint whisper. He looked down at his envelope and, after a second, tucked it away again. “Yes.”

~*

The job offers started coming in half a day after the Scott heist. Many of the more seasoned extractors were eager to meet and work with the rookie point man that had planned and managed such a complicated job with relative ease. Eames fielded most of the offers, rejecting those that didn’t need a forger or an extra man and jumping on the ones that did. Eames kept the both of them busy, going from job to job with little time to rest in between. Arthur commented on it some time during their third job together, four months after the first heist.

“I don’t like to stay in one place for long,” Eames said, most of his focus on the files in front of him.

“Why not?” Arthur asked.

“Harder to pin down a moving target, isn’t it?” And before Arthur could continue his line of questioning, Eames launched into a discussion of the mobius street design the architect was proposing for the maze.

Arthur’s curiosity, Eames found, was near insatiable and indiscriminate in its tastes. He researched everything, whether or not it was related to the job at hand. Most of all, however, Arthur was curious about Eames. He learned that Eames was more likely to answer questions when he was distracted, and Arthur took full advantage of that fact. Eames, of course, picked up on it and learned to deflect when the questions got too intimate for his liking.

The information-gathering, though, was not one-sided. Eames also learned more about Arthur through the passing weeks, but through observation instead of direct interrogation. And what he learned fascinated him.

Arthur didn’t require caffeine, but he liked the taste of coffee and was very particular to it. He tended to get more quiet and snappish when his energy levels were running low. He was slow to wake, but (as was the case during a bad job in Barcelona), he could respond to a threat almost immediately even while half-awake. His skills with firearms and hand-to-hand combat screamed military, even though Arthur was quick to assure Eames that he was not a model designed for combat. He was loyal, fierce, and terribly clever, and Eames never felt safer than he did knowing that Arthur had his back.

And there were those flashes of _something_ that Eames couldn’t quite put his finger on. The way Arthur sometimes had to fight to keep his voice even and expression neutral. The way he clearly disliked talking about his specific features and functionality. The nervous tics and habits that were so ingrained, so well programmed, that they seemed natural. Most of the time those flashes could be ignored, filed away as just some programming flaw. But there were times when that _something_ was so obvious that it couldn't be dismissed.

One such time arose from the fallout of a failed job in Vienna, eight months into their working together.

They were about two-thirds of the way through the job, working out the last few details before they started doing trial runs, when the chemist didn’t show up.

“Odd,” Sean, the extractor, said. “She’s usually here first.”

“I’ll check it out,” Arthur said, not even looking up from his laptop.

Ten minutes later he was slamming his laptop closed and shoving all of his papers into a nearby bin. “We’re made,” he said. “She sold us out to the mark an hour ago.”

“Shit.” Sean ran to his own desk, packing his things and yelling at the architect to do the same. Eames, who didn’t have much in the way of physical evidence for this job, moved to help Arthur gather his materials. They would need to burn any and all information that tied to them job before they could leave.

Sean and the architect finished before they did, running out of the building and out of sight with a single look back. Arthur and Eames set the last fire five minutes later, but that window of time was just enough for the warehouse to get surrounded.

“I’m counting at least ten,” Arthur said, crouched under a window at the front of the warehouse.

“Five more in the back,” Eames said, running to Arthur in a crouch.

Arthur tightened his grip on his Glock. “Think we can take them?”

Eames laughed. “I’ve yet to encounter a scrape that we couldn’t get out of.”

“Right.” Arthur was quiet, and then jumped up and kicked the door open. “Let’s go.”

They were holding their own quite well, mere moments from getting into their escape vehicle, when Eames shot, missed, and got a bullet through his shoulder as punishment.

Eames cursed as he ducked behind the car, clutching at his shoulder. Blood was seeping through his fingers even as he attempted to add even a bit of pressure to the wound. It wasn’t a clean shot and the bullet was still lodged somewhere in his shoulder. It hurt to move, to think. It wasn’t his first bullet wound, though, and he forced his way through the pain and started firing as soon as he was steady again.

He didn’t know how long he crouched there, taking down men, doing his best to ignore his injury. It could’ve been minutes or hours—time got funny for him when he was hurting and trying not to think about it. All he knew was that he managed to take down two of the assailants before hands wrapped around his good arm and pulled him to the car’s passenger door.

“In,” Arthur’s voice said. When Eames didn’t comply fast enough, Arthur yanked the door open and shoved him in himself. He slammed the door shut before Eames was even properly seated. A second or two later Arthur was pulling himself into the driver’s seat. Without a word, he turned the car on and tore away from the men still shooting at them.

Eames didn’t pay much attention to what Arthur was doing, more focused on keeping his blood in his body. He registered them swerving through traffic, backtracking and driving almost nonexistent roads, but he couldn’t even begin to figure out where they were once Arthur decided it was safe enough to stop some-odd hours later.

They were at a tiny, run-down hotel in the middle of what appeared to be miles and miles of abandoned farmland. Arthur went inside and made all the necessary arrangements before helping Eames out of the car and into their room. Eames got a glance of the peeling wallpaper and yellowed ceiling before slumping onto the bed. His eyes slid shut on their own.

“Eames,” Arthur said. He sounded worried, but distant. Easy to ignore.

Eames closed his eyes and slipped away for a while.

~*

Eames drifted in and out of consciousness, coasting on the pain in his shoulder, aware of Arthur moving around the room but unsure of what he was doing. It felt like an eternity, but it was most likely only a handful of seconds, before Arthur stopped next to the bed and said, "We need to get that bullet out of you."

Eames cracked his eyes open. Arthur was standing over him, something like concern plain on his face. He was fiddling with his shirtsleeves—a habit Eames learned meant Arthur was agitated. Or whatever the droid equivalent of agitation was.

"Yes," Eames said. His voice sounded faint even to his own ears. "Bathroom, then? Don't want to make a mess of the sheets."

"Less to clean up," Arthur said with a nod. He tugged Eames into a sitting position. "Up you get, then."

Before Eames was even sure of what was happening, Arthur pulled him to his feet and wrapped his good arm around his shoulders. They made the short journey into the bathroom like that, Arthur practically dragging Eames, Eames focusing on staying upright. By the time Arthur directed him to sit on the toilet, Eames was relieved to be able to sit again.

"I didn't realize you had experience with treating bullet wounds," Eames said as he tugged off his shirt. Arthur was busy at the kitchen counter, laying out the things he would need to patch up the wound.

Arthur shrugged a shoulder, not looking up from what he was doing. "I learned around the same time I learned how to fight."

"Learned?" Eames echoed. "It wasn't programmed?"

Arthur shook his head. Before Eames could pursue the meaning of that gesture, Arthur turned to him, knife in hand. "I don't have painkillers. I'm also lacking in surgical tools. This is going to hurt."

Eames clenched his good hand into a fist. "It won't be the first time," he said. "Do it quick."

Arthur went about his task in silence, pushing Eames to lean back and press his head against the wall behind him. Eames forced his breathing to remain slow and even. He tensed at the first touch of the blade against his skin, but made himself loose again a second later. Less tension meant an easier dig, and Eames wasn't keen on damaging himself even more.

The knife rested on the unbroken skin beside the wound. Arthur was looking at it, uncharacteristic hesitation showing in his eyes. His gaze flicked up to Eames'. "Ready?"

"The anticipation is going to kill me, Arthur. Just _get on with it_."

Arthur obeyed, mouth tightening as he dug the blade into the wound. Eames jerked, an involuntary sound of pain escaping him. Arthur's free hand flew up to hold him in place. His other hand kept moving, searching for the bullet in short, economical movements.

"It's deep," Arthur said, his calm voice making a sharp contrast against Eames' ragged breathing. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Eames said through clenched teeth. "Just get the bloody thing—"

He shouted as the tip of the knife nudged against the bullet and sent a clear, white-hot bolt of pain through his shoulder. There was another nudge, and then the blade dug and _pulled_. A few more agonizing tugs later, and Arthur was flicking the bullet into his waiting hand.

Arthur let out a small noise of satisfaction. "It's unbroken." He tossed the bullet onto the bathroom counter with a clatter. "You'll be fine."

Eames sat up, touching the wound with light, shaky fingers. "I'll never get used to that."

"Not your first time getting shot?"

"No. And it won't be the last."

"Hm." Arthur returned, wiping up blood and cleaning the wound before taping gauze in place over it. "Maybe you should try being shot at less."

Eames snorted. "I'm a criminal. There's no real way to avoid it." He examined Arthur's work before tugging his shirt back on. "Thank you."

"It was a simple patch job. Nothing worth thanking me for."

"I meant thank you for earlier. You could have left me back there and gotten away clean, but you didn't."

Arthur shrugged, busy cleaning the knife and the countertop. "It wouldn't have been right."

"But it would have been _logical_ ," Eames said. "Getting rid of dead weight during a chase is the most practical choice you can make."

Arthur was completely still now, frozen over the sink. He kept his eyes fixed on the running tap. After a moment he said, "You've told me, again and again, that we have to trust each other in order to survive in this line of work. Trust implies not leaving someone behind in the middle of getaway."

"Yeah," Eames said after a moment. "I guess it does."

Arthur switched the water off and walked out of the bathroom. "You need food and rest. I'll make arrangements for dinner." He closed the door before Eames could thank him again.

Eames shook his head, absently feeling at the covered wound. "A droid that understands trust," he murmured. "And worries after his partner. Now isn't that something?"

~*

Loyalty in a droid was not something to be confused over. Most droids meant to deal with people were programmed with some degree of loyalty. What was the point of robot that didn't want to make sure it made its owner happy?

Trust, though, was an entirely different thing. A human thing. When Eames had told Arthur that they needed to mutually trust one another, he mostly meant that Eames needed to be able to trust Arthur. Arthur only needed to remain loyal to a fault, supporting Eames and keeping them both safe.

So the fact that Arthur flat out stated that he not only understood the concept of trust, but practiced it, well. It was food for thought at the very least. It puzzled Eames. Intrigued him.

It also made him question whether or not he gave Arthur enough credit.

It was ridiculous, really. Eames told Arthur to trust him, and Arthur did. Eames trusted Arthur as well, but not as extreme of an extent. He knew that Arthur wouldn't stab him in the back. That was satisfactory to Eames. It wasn't amazing, but it would do. But that was before Vienna.

Now, though, as they hid out in Moscow waiting for Eames' shoulder to heal up, Eames found himself rethinking his treatment of Arthur. Arthur was a great partner to have, a great point man, flawed droid or not. He pulled his weight and then some, and he proved that he was willing to do what was needed to aid those closest to him.

Arthur trusted Eames. And, he realized two weeks after the Vienna job, Eames trusted Arthur.

It was that sense of trust that led Eames to present Arthur a job in Paris, a month after they went into hiding. “You’ll love it,” Eames said as Arthur flipped through the job’s outline. “Nice weather, nice city. Plus, you'll love the other half the team."

"Dominic and Mallorie Cobb?" Arthur read from the file.

"Married couple. He's an extractor and architect, she's a chemist. The things they do for the sake of a job is damn near miraculous."

“This job doesn’t need a forger,” Arthur said, flipping the folder closed. “It doesn’t require any extra hands, either.”

Eames shrugged his good shoulder. “I know."

Arthur looked up at Eames, eyes dark and unreadable. “You’re sending me on a job,” he said, “alone.”

"I'll be local, probably in the same hotel as you, but yeah," Eames said. "I'm out until I'm healed up. My sources say we're clear from Vienna, and I don't see why my injury should prevent you from doing some work of your own.

“It’s getting too risky, anyway, always taking jobs together,” Eames continued when Arthur didn’t say anything right away. “People might start thinking we can be used as leverage against each other. This is better than making ourselves potential targets.”

Arthur was quiet, still watching Eames. After a moment he looked back down at the folder. “That sounds all right,” he said. “I have been curious about working on my own for some time now.”

“Good. Call Dom, tell him you’ll be there. We’ll fly out tomorrow.”

~*

Eames was right: Arthur fell in love with the Cobbs almost on sight. It was hard not to, when they were so clearly in love with one another. It overflowed into everyone around them, including, it seemed, droids.

The four of them met up in a tiny cafe in the heart of Paris. Mal immediately gravitated to Arthur, cooing over him and saying he had far too much potential to be in the world of dream crime. Dom was hesitant at first, studying Arthur through narrow eyes, testing Arthur's knowledge with a few probing questions. Arthur, of course, met each question intelligently and eloquently. Dom was a different man as soon as they started talking about dream theory, leaning into Arthur’s space and gesticulating as they went over a few of the more abstract theories. Then Mal joined in, and the three of them went off in their own little world, Eames content to listen to what was being said without adding his own thoughts.

"He's good," Dom said to Eames after lunch, the both of them watching as Mal laughed over a story she was telling Arthur, leaning on the droid as she spoke. Arthur was quiet, but there was a smile lingering around his lips and the corners of his eyes. "Very good, for the little amount of time you've been working together. Where did you find him?"

"Prague," Eames said, and left it at that.

Dom hummed. "We'll try him out, see how he does on this job."

"He'll be happy to hear that. When do you start?"

"Two days." Dom tilted his head at Eames with a slight smile. "Quick and easy with great pay. The perfect job for starting off alone. It'll be a breeze for Arthur."

~*

The job was hell.

Problems started appearing right off the bat. The client neglected to tell Dom that she expected the extraction done within the month. Worse, Arthur discovered after a few hours of digging that the mark was legally insane. The Cobbs and Arthur worked long and odd hours, trying to find a way to get into the mark's head in time without running the risk of going crazy themselves. While the Cobbs were used to the stress, Arthur wasn't, and he was beginning to show strain. He didn’t say anything about it, but Eames read it clearly in the tense line of his shoulders and the way that he was always elbow-deep in research no matter what time of day it was. Eames almost asked Arthur about it, wanting to see if he could help, but he refrained. Arthur needed to learn to work alone, and this was the best way to learn. He was in good hands, and Eames would have to trust that he had a handle on the situation.

A week into the job, and Eames was worried that he may have made a slight miscalculation. Arthur didn’t return to the hotel after the work day. He sent a text when he left the apartment the team was working out of, but there wasn’t a single peep after that. No return message, no knock on Eames’ door. Arthur was gone.

Normally Eames would leave Arthur alone—the droid always came back eventually—but this was the first time Arthur was doing a job that demanded so much from him. Disappearing off the grid on a time-sensitive job was already an out of character move for Arthur, and Eames didn’t want him to do anything that could get him hurt or blow his cover. So, around midnight, Eames looked up the GPS signal on Arthur’s mobile and followed it to a club located in the grittier part of Paris.

Eames wasn’t entirely sure what to expect when he stepped into the club, but even then he couldn’t quite grasp what he was seeing.

It was a typical club, the air pulsing with a dirty beat and dance floor packed with young, glamorous people. Eames didn’t find Arthur on the floor, though. He was seated at the bar instead, drink in hand as he leaned into the man seated next to him. As Eames watched, Arthur laughed at something the man whispered in his ears, showing off dimples that Eames wasn’t even aware existed. Arthur said something in return to the man, now close enough that his lips brushed the man’s ears.

Eames was moving towards Arthur before he had consciously decided that any action needed to be taken. Without a moment’s hesitation, he sidled up behind Arthur and put an arm around his shoulders.

“Ah, there you are,” Eames said, voice low and affectionate.

“Eames,” Arthur said, voice tense and barely above a growl.

“What the hell is going on?” the strange man said, taken off-guard by Eames’ sudden appearance. He spoke in heavily-accented English, and he took in Eames’ casual contact with Arthur with narrowed eyes. “Arthur, who is this?”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Eames said. “Arthur called me a while back, asking me to pick him up. Work day tomorrow and all of that.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur said.

“No, no, don’t give me that.” Eames nudged Arthur into standing. “You’ve been going on and on about that project you’ve got coming up. You’d hate me tomorrow if I let you stay.”

Arthur looked like he was ready to argue the point, but then he must have caught the hard look in Eames’ eyes because he nodded and let himself be pulled away from the man he had been flirting with. Eames turned and led the way out, not looking back at Arthur until they were outside and half a block away from the club.

“Now,” Eames said, coming to a stop on an empty street corner. “Mind telling me what the hell that was?”

“I’m feeling strained,” Arthur said, gaze fixed on the concrete under Eames’ feet. “Nothing I usually do is alleviating the problem. I thought this might help.”

“What, picking up some stranger in a bar? How would that help?”

Arthur looked up at Eames and then away again. "I wanted to casually interact with someone who would treat me," Arthur paused, searching for the right word, "differently."

"Differently?" Eames repeated. "Differently than what?"

"Than you."

Eames' brow furrowed. "Are you saying I don't treat you well?"

"No," Arthur said. "The way you treat me is fine. You're friendly, trustworthy, kind when you wish to be, but."

"But?" Eames prompted when Arthur fell silent.

"The way you react to my behavior is confusing," Arthur said. "It's almost as if you never expect me to act normal. And if I do a normal, everyday thing, it's puzzling and something to take note of."

Eames blinked, not following the droid's logic. "But it _is_ odd," he said. "Droids aren't-—"

Arthur let out a short bark of a laugh, startling Eames into silence. "People see what they want to see," he muttered. "All you have to do is feed their preconceptions."

Eames was missing something, he knew it, but he couldn’t place it, couldn’t name it. “I don't understand."

Arthur shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said. He straightened his shoulders and loosened his stance, giving off the appearance of calm. “I apologize,” Arthur said. “That was an unnecessary risk to take, seeing as I’m on a job. It won’t happen again.”

Now Eames was certain something was wrong. Something big. It was written in Arthur's blank expression and shuttered eyes. "Wait, I—"

The droid shook his head again and turned away. “Have a good night, Eames. I will check in with you in the morning.”

With that, Arthur walked away into the night, leaving Eames on the street corner with more questions than before and not a single answer to work with.

~*

The rest of the job went off without a hitch. Arthur resumed his usual behaviors, working round the clock to ensure that his team had the best advantage for the task set before them. He checked in with Eames and didn’t go out at night. If he seemed more distant than before, a little less curious, Eames chalked it up to the job. It was stressful, after all.

So when Mal cornered Eames after everything was over to tell him she was worried about Arthur, Eames was a little nonplussed. "Why?" he asked with a small smile. "He was brilliant."

"He was, cher," Mal said. "That's not what is the matter. He was very open at first, happy to be with us and all right with showing it. The last few days, though, he's withdrawn. As if he's lost his _joie de vivre_."

Eames followed Mal's gaze to where Arthur was standing and talking to Dom. His face was solemn, giving away nothing even as he made a gesture to go along with whatever he was saying. It was the least emotional Eames had ever seen Arthur, including right when they just met. It was unsettling, but he didn't need to share all of that with Mal.

"I’ll talk to him," he said.

"That is all I ask." Mal went on her toes to kiss Eames on the cheek. "Safe travels, cherie. And visit soon."

~*

Eames didn't talk to Arthur about it. For a man who made a living off of people and their feelings, Eames himself was awful at expressing himself or attacking his problems head-on. His first instinct was to run away until it blew over. Since Eames couldn't abandon Arthur for an indeterminate amount of time, he decided to ignore the problem and hope it would go away on its own.

It didn't. The distance continued after Paris and into the next three jobs. Two of them they worked together, but the third one Eames did on his own, leaving Arthur in their shared hotel room to work on the preliminary research for an upcoming fourth. During those several weeks Arthur remained professional, calm, and everything else that could be asked out of a working droid. Their conversations were stilted, stripped to the bare minimum.

It was driving Eames mad.

He hadn’t realized he was used to Arthur’s quirks, the hitches in his programming. Eames was accustomed to working with someone who he could talk to, who he could ask questions and have questions asked in return. This new, obedient, model-perfect Arthur was just wrong in every way. Eames wanted to grab him by the shoulders and _shake_ him, demanding to know what happened to the old Arthur, how Eames could get that Arthur back. But Eames didn't want to upset the tenuous calm they had between them, so he remained quiet.

Everything came to a head about four months after the Paris incident. Eames had dug up a complex and interesting job that fit him and Arthur almost perfectly. It also didn't hurt that the job boasted a six-digit payoff. Eames accepted the offer and was on his way to Phoenix in less than a day, Arthur in tow.

Arthur didn't complain about the sudden move, used to Eames' working habits by now. He spent the flight getting a head start on research and helped Eames settle into their hotel rooms with easy efficiency. If Eames didn't know any better, he would say that Arthur was looking forward to the job.

That all changed when they showed up at the warehouse the team was to use. Arthur froze as soon as he walked through the door and got a look at everyone. Eames, though, kept moving and greeted the architect with a grin.

"Thanks for telling me about this, mate," Eames said. "I've been itching to work with you again."

Norton laughed, white teeth a bright contrast to his dark skin. He was a big man, tall and broad with a round face. He and Eames met during years before, when the PASIV was the military's plaything. Eames always went to him when he was in need of work or money, and Norton did the same with Eames. While they weren't close, they could rely on each other, and that was fine for Eames.

"Been pining, boy?" Norton asked, loud as always.

Eames gave an easy shrug. "What can I say, I missed the sound of your melodious voice."

"Right back atcha, you damn rogue." Norton stood and clapped Eames on the back. His gaze shifted and he nodded over Eames' shoulder. "Who's your friend?"

"He's Arthur, the point. He's one of the best I've ever worked with."

Norton grunted. "Looks like he's ready for a fight, that one."

"What?" Eames turned around and saw that Arthur had yet to move away from the warehouse entrance. He wasn't paying attention to Eames or Norton, his gaze directed instead towards Hilda, the extractor. Arthur's lips were thin and pale, his eyes narrowed the slightest bit. Hilda was aware of the attention and was watching Arthur in turn, her expression one of faint amusement.

Eames wondered if Hilda was aware that that look was probably pissing Arthur off even more than he already was.

A second later Eames came to the conclusion that it didn't matter. What did matter was that he defuse the situation before Arthur actually _did_ start a fight.

Excusing himself from Norton, he walked over to Arthur and looped an arm around his shoulders. He pulled Arthur away with little effort, and as soon as their backs were to the other two people in the warehouse he murmured, "Problem?"

Arthur still looked pissed, but he kept his voice even as he said, "We need to leave. Now."

Eames gave Arthur an incredulous look. "You want to back out of the job?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"We aren't safe here."

"Aren't—?" Eames shook his head before turning to look at Norton. "Looks like something's come up," he said with a smile. "What say we reconvene tomorrow, start the job then?"

Norton glanced at Hilda, who gave a small shrug. "We are in no hurry," she said. "Be here tomorrow morning and then we will start."

"Cheers."

Eames let Arthur pull him out of the warehouse and into their rental car. Arthur didn't say anything as he drove off to their hotel rooms, and once they were there he wouldn't settle until he checked every room and every door and window. Once he was satisfied they were alone and safe, he leaned against the wall closest to the front door. He was guarding the entrance without trying to be obvious about it. Which made it obvious for Eames, and just made him more annoyed.

"We need to go," Arthur said again before Eames could ask any questions. "Book a flight to anywhere and keep moving for a while."

"Why?"

"We're not safe here."

"You already said that," Eames said, trying for patience. "You've yet to explain what's dangerous about this job."

Arthur crossed his arms and looked down at the floor, expression serious. After a moment he said, "I don't trust the extractor."

"Hilda?" Eames leaned against the wall opposite to Arthur, confused. "She's been in the field for years and has a good reputation. I've never heard of her selling out a team before."

"That's beside the point," Arthur said, mouth set in a stubborn line. "She's dangerous."

"And how do you know this?"

"I," Arthur started. He didn't get far past that. His brow furrowed and his eyes grew distant. "I just do."

"Have you worked with her before?" Eames asked, trying to get to the root of this.

"No."

"Have you ever _met_ before?"

"No. I mean yes. I mean." Arthur's frown deepened. "I don't know. It must have been before the wipe."

"The wipe?" Then Eames remembered what Ikeda said, way back when he first got Arthur. His permanent memory had been empty at the time, wiped so thoroughly that Arthur didn't even know his own make or model. "So," Eames said, "you're saying that you knew Hilda before your designer died?"

"It's a possibility." Arthur rubbed at his forehead, expression still clouded. "All I know is that I see her and everything in me tells me she's trouble."

Eames was quiet, taking it all in. Arthur didn't say anything as Eames thought. He knew from experience that Eames would speak when he was ready, and that pushing for a faster answer led to a rash response.

"Okay," Eames said, straightening up from his slouch. "We'll do the job."

Arthur blinked. "But—"

"We will do the job," Eames said, voice firm. "But we'll also keep an eye on Hilda. If there's even the smallest hint of trouble, we're gone. Good?"

Arthur looked less than pleased, but he still nodded.

"Good. Now rest up. It's gonna be a long job."

~*

The first few days went by without a problem. The team worked together to come up with a plan, then drifted to their own corners of the warehouse to work on their separate parts. Every now and then Eames would look up from the documents he was creating and find Hilda tilted back in her chair, gaze fixed on Arthur. It seemed odd, especially the way Hilda always looked away the moment Arthur looked up, but it wasn't anything to raise any red flags. Maybe Hilda did know Arthur from before he lost his memory, but she didn't seem to have any ill will towards him.

Then, three weeks into the job, Eames came back from following the girl he would be forging to find the warehouse empty. Eames studied the desks, frowning a little. Norton was wandering through one of Arizona’s many national parks, looking for inspiration for the intricate maze needed for the job. Hilda and Arthur should still be here working out the details of the plan, though. A lack of either of their presence was unusual. Maybe they were in one of the back offices, looking something up in the files there.

As if on cue, the sound of a box hitting the floor with a muffled thud came from the direction of the offices. Eames was on high alert in an instant, approaching the back door with light, silent steps. As he got closer he heard voices, but they were too quiet for him to discern words. Keeping his movements slow and cautious Eames pressed his ear to the door.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Arthur said. His voice was muffled, but the words were clear enough.

"Please," Hilda said. "You cannot say that you did not recognize me that first day. Your reaction was very hard to miss."

"I'm not denying that seeing you for the first time was unsettling. But that doesn’t mean anything. We've never worked together. We've never met."

"You sound authentic," Hilda said, voice a fraction above a drawl, "but that's the point of you, is it not? To be as close to human as possible?"

Arthur was quiet for a moment. For too long. "You’ve lost me," he said, but it was too little too late.

Hilda laughed. "If you say so," she said, voice laced with amusement. Eames heard her heels click against the concrete as she took a few steps. "Then I suppose you do not know what this is?"

Eames didn't hear Arthur's reaction, but whatever it was satisfied Hilda. "Yes," she said. "I knew it was you. Fischer-Morrow has been looking for you."

"I don't know what Fischer-Morrow is," Arthur said, voice slow and unsteady, "but I'm very sure that I want nothing to do with them."

"You do not really have a say in it, so too bad."

"Hilda," Arthur said. "Please put the knife down."

"Make me."

"Hilda—"

The sounds of a scuffle erupted, followed by the thuds of more boxes falling as they possibly rammed into a stack of them. Eames burst through the door, the time for subtlety long gone. He found Arthur backed up against the far wall, files scattered around him, Hilda pressed against him and trying her hardest to get her blade in his throat. Eames' gun was out and aimed at Hilda's back before he had consciously decided to do anything.

"Back away, Hilda," Eames said. "Back off now and I won't have to shoot you."

Hilda didn't turn to look at Eames, didn't acknowledge him in the slightest. She did change what she was aiming for, though, and the sudden shift of weight made Arthur's grip loosen. In a split second Hilda's knife was embedded in his chest.

The sound of the gun firing was loud in the small room, and Hilda dropped, Eames' shot taking her low in the back. Eames reholstered his gun and was at Arthur's side in an instant, propping Arthur up when he started to sway.

"Eames," Arthur said, voice strained. His fingers touched the knife handle protruding from his chest.

"Don't," Eames said, lightly pushing his hand away. "It might make things worse. Shit, I don't know anything about droid tech."

"Eames."

"We'll get you to Mal. She's good with droids, believe it or not. She studied them extensively in—"

"Eames," Arthur said again, cutting through Eames' building panic. "I don't. I don't feel—"

Arthur coughed, short and wet, covering his mouth in apparent reflex. He looked as surprised by the action as Eames felt. He pulled his hand away from his mouth and stared at his palm. Eames glanced down at Arthur's hand and felt himself pale. There was blood in Arthur's hand, stark against the skin of his palm.

"What," Arthur said.

Eames took a deep breath, let it out slow. When he felt a little steadier, he yanked Arthur onto his feet. "Let's get out of here," he said. "We'll figure this out later."

“Wait,” Arthur said, breathless. “Wait, wait. Search her.”

“Now?”

“She has something. Might be important.”

Eames wanted to argue that they—that _Arthur_ —didn’t have time to search dead bodies, but he recognized the stubborn look in Arthur’s eyes. With a sigh, Eames gently leaned Arthur against the wall and knelt to search through Hilda’s pockets. She wasn’t carrying anything, save for what appeared to be a thumb drive of sorts in her front pants pocket. Eames grabbed it and stood.

“That’s it,” he said. “Can we go now?”

“Yes,” Arthur said. His shoulders hitched, and he let out another weak, blood-filled cough. “Let’s go. Please.”

~*

Trying to fly with a victim of a stabbing was always difficult, and near-impossible when you were in a rush. Eames didn’t have time to waste for airport security, so he did the next best thing: steadied the blade with as many bandages as he could get his hands on, bundled Arthur into their rental car, and drove to Los Angeles. It was a six-hour drive. They made it in four.

The Cobbs had two homes, one in Paris and one in Los Angeles. They alternated between the two as they saw fit, without any real schedule. Eames was worried that they would be in France, but luckily enough Dom opened the door after Eames’ first round of knocking.

“What is it?” Dom asked, eyes narrowing as he took in the way Arthur was leaning on Eames. “What’s happened?”

“I’ll explain later,” Eames said, shouldering past Dom and helping Arthur onto the living room sofa. “Can you get Mal? And that doctor friend of yours. Reyes, I believe?”

Dom did as he was asked, hurrying upstairs and calling Mal’s name. Mal was down in seconds, dark eyes full of worry. Her mouth tightened when she saw Arthur. “What happened?”

“Stabbing,” Eames said. “I can’t take him to a hospital, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Mal repeated. She tilted her head. “But why bring him to me? I have no medical experience.”

“Eames,” Arthur said. The trip had been hard on him, and his voice was paper-thin, the fingers he wrapped around Eames’ wrist weak and shaking. Eames loosened Arthur’s grip with gentle fingers.

“We can trust them,” Eames said. “All right?”

Arthur stared at him for a moment, silent, before he closed his eyes and nodded. Feeling relieved, Eames turned to Mal and told her about Prague, about finding Arthur and buying him. He told her, in no uncertain terms, what Arthur was.

Mal listened without comment. When Eames was done, she glanced at the blood showing through Arthur’s bandages and lifted an eyebrow. “And now?”

“Now,” Eames said, looking at Arthur with concern and confusion. “Now I don’t know what to think. I—”

Mal pressed delicate fingers against his lips, hushing him. Her gaze was soft and understanding, “We’ll figure it out.”

Eames felt more settled at that. He made sure his gratitude shone through his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Mal?” Dom came into the living room, a diminutive Latina woman right behind him. “Emma’s here.”

“Excellent.” Mal nudged Eames out towards the hallway. “Now go. We’ll come to you once we’ve got everything under control.”

It hurt to leave, especially when Arthur looked so wary about the newcomer, but Eames acquiesced. “I’ll be nearby,” he said, focus mostly on Arthur. He waited just long enough for Arthur to give him a weak nod before turning and leaving the room.

~*

Dom led Eames into his study, one room over. Eames, too wound up to relax, paced the length of the room. Dom settled behind his desk and watched. After twenty minutes or so of silence Dom said, “He’ll be fine. They know what they’re doing.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Eames said, still pacing. “I’m not worried that they won’t be able to help him. I—” He paused, unable to fully articulate his thoughts.

“You don’t know if you’ll like whatever they find,” Dom said. While his tone suggested a question, his expression was knowing.

“Something like that,” Eames said. “He’s one of the greatest people I’ve worked with. He’s brilliant. And if something is, if I have to explain that I can’t stay—”

“If he trusts you as much as you trust him,” Dom said, “he’ll understand.”

Eames nodded, saying nothing. He just hoped that Dom was right.

They waited for another twenty minutes after that, Eames still pacing, Dom watching him. When the door opened and Mal came in, Eames was glad for the distraction from his racing thoughts.

“What is it?” he asked as soon as Mal closed the door behind her.

She was silent for a moment, dark somber eyes studying Eames. She said, “Arthur is human.”

Eames slumped into a chair, smearing a hand across his face. “Christ.”

“It’s not just that.” Mal pulled out her tablet, flicking through a few pages. “You know the nano sensor?”

“I’m familiar with it.” It was developed around the time androids became common, and was used to detect the nanotech specifically used for the more intricate droids. Almost every government used the sensors in one way or another to keep potential spies out of the more sensitive departments. “You used it on Arthur?”

“Of course. How else was I to know whether or not he was human?” Mal found what she was looking for on her tablet and handed it over. “Here are the results.”

Eames looked them over, taking in all the information in a single rush. What he saw made his brows furrow. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Yes you do,” Mal said. “You simply do not wish to understand what you see.” She indicated the close-up of Arthur’s shoulders and head. “Brighter colors mean a higher concentration of nanotech.”

The upper part of Arthur’s spine and the left half of his brain were alight with color. “He has nanotech,” Eames said. “But he’s human?”

“He was born human. Someone did that to him later.” Mal retrieved her tablet from Eames’ numb fingers and passed it on so Dom could see, avoiding Eames’ gaze. “He’s a cyborg.”

It felt like someone had taken everything Eames knew about the world and turned it on its head. “Impossible,” he said. “Cyborg technology is impossible. There’s theoretical stuff in the works, but nothing concrete enough to actually produce physical results.”

“Yet here he is,” Mal said.

Eames swiped a shaking hand across his lips. “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered. He shook his head and said, “Can I talk to him?”

Mal shook her head. “Emma is stitching him up. She didn’t want him sitting idly with a knife in his chest any longer.”

Fair enough. “Did he say anything about how he ended up like this? With half his head replaced?”

“He doesn’t remember,” Mal said. “He talked about something you pulled off of the woman who tried to kill him. He also mentioned Fischer-Morrow.”

“Fischer-Morrow?” Dom frowned. “That name’s been getting around recently. The stuff I’ve heard is worrying.”

“They’re another monopoly,” Eames said, dismissive. “Energy and robotics. They don’t have anything to do with dreamshare.”

“But they obviously have something to do with Arthur,” Dom said. He paused for a moment, thinking. “What’s the other thing he was talking about, that thing you pulled off his attacker?”

Eames dug into his pocket and pulled out the drive. “It’s a storage device,” Eames said, as if that wasn’t obvious. “I just have no idea for what. It’s not a basic USB.”

Mal plucked it out of his hand and looked it over, eyes intent. “It’s a memory drive,” she said after a minute or so. “A basic model used for droids and, potentially, cyborgs.”

Dom looked at the drive with a raised eyebrow. “Think it’s Arthur’s?”

“Perhaps.” Mal sighed and handed the drive back to Eames. “We will have to wait to find out, though. He needs to rest from his injuries.”

“When can I see him?” Eames asked.

“Tomorrow morning.” Mal was firm when she tugged Eames out of the study and down the hall. “For now you two will rest. It’s been a hard two days for the both of you.”

Mal showed Eames to the guest room, wished him good night, and firmly closed the door behind her. Eames got the feeling that he would catch her wrath if she caught him anywhere near the living room and Arthur before morning. He was restless and wanted to talk to Arthur now, but also knew that it wouldn’t help anyone to question Arthur when he was still in the early recovery stage. Trapped, Eames began to pace again.

The information that Arthur was, at his core, human, was still settling in. It was hard to connect that fact with the supposed droid he had worked with for almost a year now. But, now that Eames thought about it, was it really surprising? Arthur was showing so many quirks and faults that he couldn’t be anything but human. Eames had simply been blind to what he was seeing every single day.

Then again, people saw what they wanted to see. Arthur being a droid made sense. Arthur being a _cyborg_ did not.

Eames sat down on the bed with a heavy sigh. It wasn’t as if he could blame Arthur, though. He lost his memory some time before he was sold. If someone told Arthur he was a droid, he latched onto it without further question. The disparity to being called a droid and the impulses and quirks he had every day was most likely painful. Learning today that he was human must have been a shock.

Hopefully Arthur’s old memories would help with everything he’d gone through, if even just a little. Eames flopped onto his back, his exhaustion hitting him like a wave. He’d find everything out tomorrow. Arthur would have access to his memory drive, he would learn who he was and where he came from, who did this to him. Eames would ask questions, try to find out everything he could and—

Eames sighed and let his eyes slip shut. He’d think about his next step tomorrow.

~*

Eames’ sleep was restless, and he woke up more than once during the night, body tense like he was expecting an attack. Around dawn he sat up with a sigh, giving up on sleep. Maybe if he went downstairs he’d get some news about Arthur.

He was just finishing up getting dressed when the door opened and Mal poked her head inside. Eames straightened up, made alert by the look on her face. “He’s awake?” he said.

“And asking for you,” Mal said with a nod. “Come on. He needs to rest, not worry himself into a decline.”

Eames headed downstairs without another word, Mal staying upstairs to give him and Arthur space to talk. Arthur was sitting on the edge of the living room’s fold-out couch, fingers lightly tracing the bandage taped to his ribcage. Eames stepped around the mattress and sat down next to him. He remained quiet, wanting Arthur to start the conversation at his own pace.

“When I realized I was bleeding,” Arthur said, breaking the silence, “the amount of confusion and panic I felt was—unexpected.” He took a deep breath, held it, and let it go. “That I was actually feeling something I could identify as emotion only made things worse.”

“Arthur,” Eames said, but that was as far as he got before Arthur started talking again.

“For the last year, I have been working under the belief that I was not human, and what I felt or did that said otherwise was simply to be considered a flaw.” He slanted a glance at Eames. “You did nothing to improve the situation, either.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Eames asked, stung by the accusation. “Cyborg technology doesn’t exist.”

Arthur clasped his hands together in his lap and closed his eyes, ignoring Eames’ words. “I know I shouldn’t blame you for how you treated me, especially when I did something that didn’t match up with what I was supposed to be. But at the same time, it hurts to know that the conflict I lived with every day was a lie that you encouraged. It hurts and angers me.” He opened his eyes again, looked down at his hands. “I don’t know how to resolve the logic with the emotion.”

“Welcome to being human,” Eames said. The smile he offered felt weak and pathetic, but it was all he could manage, given the circumstances. “It doesn’t get much easier, unfortunately.”

Arthur’s smile wasn’t any better than Eames’, and faded quickly. “Did you give Mal the drive we pulled off of Hilda?”

“Yeah. She says it might be your old memory drive.”

“She’s most likely right.” Arthur looked at Eames, his eyes shuttered and cold. “Could you tell her to bring it here? I don’t want to live under a false assumption any longer, and getting answers as to why I’m sitting here, feeling like I’m malfunc—going crazy—when I shouldn’t be.”

Eames knew a dismissal when he heard one. He nodded and left the room without another word.

Mal was standing on top of the stairs. Eames wasn’t sure how much she heard, but her face was full of sympathy he didn’t want right now. “He wants to remember,” he said, looking over her shoulder at nothing as he spoke. “Can that happen now?”

“Yes.” Mal was still looking at him with dark, sad eyes, and she touched his cheek with cold fingers. “Things will be alright, cher,” she murmured.

Eames shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “Set him up,” he said. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Mal didn’t say anything else, just nodded and went to Arthur. Eames went back to his room and stared out the window. After a moment he started packing up the few things of his scattered about the room.

It was time to go.

~*

Arthur’s main port was located at the top of his spine, shaped like an inverted triangle, located below his hairline. He used it for research when Eames was the only one around, creating a hard line between himself and the data he needed for the job (hacking, Arthur explained once, was a lot easier for him when he could see it in his own head). It was Arthur’s fastest and easiest way to process huge amounts of information in a short amount of time.

The drive fit perfectly in that port, and when Eames came back downstairs Arthur was on his side, drive sticking out of the back of his neck, eyes closed. Eames watched as Arthur’s eyes moved behind his eyelids. If Eames didn’t know any better, he would’ve said that Arthur was dreaming.

Dom and Mal were both in the living room, watching Arthur. They looked around when they heard Eames approach. Mal saw the bag in Eames’ hand and looked pained. Dom only sighed and said, “He won’t understand.”

“I know,” Eames said. He was breaking a trust, leaving Arthur like this. “But it’s necessary.”

Dom nodded. “We’ll stick to the legal side of things for a while, keep him safe.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Mal stood, kissed Eames on both cheeks. “Be safe.”

“No promises,” Eames said with a fleeting smirk. He sobered when his gaze shifted to Arthur. He lightly brushed his fingers across Arthur’s cheekbone. Arthur sighed, the noise quiet and thin, but was otherwise undisturbed. Eames turned to leave.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said without looking back, but as he left the Cobbs’ house and drove off he knew that it was a promise he wouldn’t keep.

~*

Fischer-Morrow caught up with Eames a week later in Beijing. After a long chase through the market district, Eames found himself being grabbed and thrown against an alley wall. Three guns were pressed against his person almost immediately.

“Where is it?” the largest of the three men asked. He had cold eyes and a crooked nose.

Eames laughed, breathless from running and relief. “Sold it,” he said. “Can’t do shit with a faulty droid.”

Crooked Nose seemed to believe him, seeing as he growled and shoved Eames away before disappearing with his two colleagues. When Eames managed to wander back to his tiny hotel, he was unsurprised to see that his room had been thoroughly ransacked. Eames packed up his scattered things and left the country.

Eames didn’t take any jobs, kept moving around as often as he could. He ran, never looking back, keeping his routes confusing and unpredictable. Fischer-Morrow found him three more times, asking the same questions, searching his living quarters. Each time Eames sent them away with a laugh and the same story. Six months after Eames left California alone, Fischer-Morrow stopped showing up and Eames felt safe enough to start taking jobs again. He still felt hollow, like something was missing, but he didn’t regret his decision to leave for a damn second.

~*

Eames didn’t see Arthur again for three years.

Mal kept him in the loop, sending emails through encrypted accounts. Some of them were brief, a handful of sentences outlining the Cobbs’ ongoing research and Arthur’s part in it. A lot of them, though, were more personal. Mal loved taking pictures, and made sure Eames got every single one. There was, for example, a picture of Arthur holding newborn Philippa, expression curious and hesitant. There was another, about a year later, of him holding James, looking far more confident. There were birthdays, holidays, outings. If Arthur was there, Eames got a picture of it.

The progression of Arthur was amazing to watch. Eames could order the photos chronologically just by how Arthur held himself. As the weeks and months went on he was looser, more emotional, human. It was fascinating and more beautiful than anything else Eames had seen.

But Eames still kept his distance. It was safer to do so, in more ways than one. Every now and then he would consider going back to the States and seeing Arthur and the Cobbs, but every time he would shelve the idea, saying he would later. Always later.

He might have never come back if Mal’s emails hadn’t stopped making sense and started becoming unsettling. Then, a few weeks after that, silence. More than a little worried, Eames went digging for some news in the Cobbs’ neck of the woods. He was booking a flight to Los Angeles less than an hour afterwards, heart heavy, throat tight, and now more than ever, his thoughts full of _Arthur_.

~*

Eames didn’t go to the funeral service, the idea of being around so many people when he said his goodbyes to Mal appalling. Instead, he waited for nightfall, entering the cemetery around midnight and finding her grave by the light of the waxing moon and the piles of flowers still scattered around it. He didn’t say anything aloud, keeping his thoughts and farewells quiet in respect to the stillness around him. When he finished, he laid a hand on the gravestone, bowed his head, and turned to go.

Arthur was standing behind him, silent and still.

“Arthur,” Eames said after getting over his initial surprise.

“You weren’t at the funeral,” Arthur said, voice even. With his back to the moonlight, Eames couldn’t make out his expression.

“Couldn’t make it,” Eames said, keeping his tone light. “I’ve only just arrived.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Arthur said. “You got here early this morning.”

Eames blinked. Before he could even consider the consequences he said, “Keeping tabs on me, hm?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, and left it at that. He sounded angrier saying that one word than Eames had ever heard him before.

“Why?” Eames asked. He could tell he was on shaky ground, but that one question seemed safe enough.

“Because,” Arthur said, “you left. You left without telling me _anything_. I had to make do.”

Eames understood what Arthur was getting at, even if Arthur didn’t seem to want to say it outright. They’d worked together long enough for Eames to know that Arthur liked knowing as much as he could. He researched as if it were a lifeline, would work at something until he knew every single detail, no matter how minute. Without a real explanation for why Eames left, Arthur seemed to have settled for keeping track of him. Eames wondered if that had worked.

Judging by how pale and furious Arthur’s face was when he stepped closer, Eames gathered that no, it hadn’t.

“I came back,” Eames said. “I told you I would.”

“You came back because of Mal, not because of some weak promise you made while _running away_.”

“Is that what you think I was doing?” Eames said, anger a sudden spark in his chest.

“You’ve been gone for three years, Eames, what else was I supposed to think?”

“I don’t know,” Eames said, “but a little trust in me wouldn’t have hurt.”

“Trust?” Arthur let out a short bark of a laugh. “You lost any trust I had in you when you walked out when I needed you the most.”

“You didn’t seem to need me,” Eames said. “What you said that morning made it clear that you weren’t exactly happy with me.”

“That didn’t mean _leave_ ,” Arthur said, voice low but no less fierce. “What, did you think that it wasn’t worth fixing? That I wasn’t worth—”

He stopped, eyes going wide as he registered what he almost let slip. And, just like that, the fight went out of Eames. “Arthur,” he said, voice soft.

Arthur looked away, face drawn. “Just,” he said, “just don’t, Eames. Don’t.”

Eames studied Arthur, trying to get a read on him. For all that Arthur had grown in the last few years, he still had one of the best poker faces Eames had ever seen. With a shake of his head, Eames said, “I know that I can’t fix what’s happened, but I can at least provide answers. Look over the first six months after I left. That should tell you enough.”

Arthur didn’t say anything, his jaw working. After a second he gave Eames a jerky nod.

“After that,” Eames said, “if you want, contact me. If not because you believe me, then because of Cobb. He needs to get out of the country as soon as he can.”

With that, Eames walked past Arthur and into the night. “Be hearing from you,” he said, before letting the shadows swallow him up.

~*

Eames didn’t sleep that night. He chain-smoked his way through a pack of cigarettes, watching the night sky until it greyed out and began to lighten with the dawn. His eyes were gritty and his body felt heavy with jet lag-fueled exhaustion, but his racing mind refused to let him sleep. He needed to be sure, needed to know, before he could allow himself rest.

It was half past six when his phone buzzed, signalling the arrival of a text message. Eames opened it without a second thought. It was blunt and to the point, without a trace of personalization.

_How soon can you get two passports that’ll make it through to France?_

Eames’ smile was faint and humorless. _tonight. lax. dont be late._

~*

Arthur and Dom only stayed in France for a few days before disappearing again, this time without Eames’ assistance. The next Eames heard of them, it was three months later, and they were making a name for themselves as an extraction team that took any job, no matter the impossibility. They moved constantly, going from job to job without a single break. Eames kept an eye on them when he could, but stayed out of their way for the most part. Arthur knew how to take care of himself, and Eames didn’t see him wanting or searching out help any time soon.

Which was why, eight months after Mal’s funeral, Eames was surprised to find Arthur on his doorstep.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Moscow?” Eames asked, leaning against the doorframe to hide the way he had instantly tensed at seeing Arthur again.

“I’ve been leaving false trails since Edinburgh,” Arthur said.

Eames raised an eyebrow. Edinburgh had happened a month before, and from what Eames had heard, it ended with half the team dead. “Sounds like you pissed off someone big,” Eames said.

“Yeah,” Arthur said with a sigh. “And now Dom is swearing that this job will be different, that we’ll actually be paid...” He trailed off, looked over Eames’ shoulder to the apartment beyond. “Can I come in?” he asked. He sounded nonchalant, but Eames could see hesitancy flickering in his eyes.

Eames sighed, pushed off the doorframe, and led the way farther into the flat. After a second he heard the front door swing close and lock. He didn’t turn to look back, just went into the kitchen.

“Something to drink?” he asked, pulling out his emergency Glenfiddich. He finally glanced back at Arthur, who was hovering just outside the kitchen. “You sound like you need it.”

Arthur shook his head. “My brain can’t process alcohol correctly,” he said. “I get the physical inhibitions, but I don’t get to feel drunk.”

“That’s a shame.” Eames poured a finger for himself and went into the living room, Arthur still following him. He flopped himself onto the couch and said, “Researched that, did you?”

Arthur perched himself on a nearby armchair. “I learned it the hard way,” he said with a sigh. “With the way things have been going, the distraction would’ve been nice.”

“Dreamshare isn’t what it used to be,” Eames said. He smirked as he took a sip of his scotch. “More cutthroat than ever, it is.”

“You know,” Arthur said, abrupt. “I never did thank you for what you did after you first left.”

“What?”

“You burned four aliases in the span of six months and cleared out every single one of your safehouses.” Arthur shook his head and forced out a laugh. “No wonder I couldn’t track you down until you started taking jobs again.”

“Fischer-Morrow didn’t want to let me go,” Eames said with a shrug. “Though it wasn’t all bad. I have a nice place in Mombasa now.”

“You’ve always liked warmer areas,” Arthur said. The look he slanted towards Eames was almost fond.

It unsettled Eames more than it comforted him. He put his nearly-forgotten drink down and leaned forward. “Arthur,” he said, voice low and serious. “Why are you here?”

Arthur shrugged, opened his mouth, and froze, staring at Eames. After a moment he closed his mouth again and slumped forward, arms resting on knees. “Mal,” he said. His voice cracked on that one word.

A bolt of fear went through Eames. “Mal?” he repeated.

“She’s been showing up,” Arthur said. “During jobs. Fucking everything up. Cobb can’t even build anymore, it’s so bad.”

Eames was speechless. Shades were dangerous to everyone on a job, not just the person who had one. Eames knew of two teams that went mad, one pulled under by the extractor’s dead brother, the other by the point man’s abusive aunt. “Arthur,” he said through suddenly-numb lips. “That’s not, it isn’t—”

“I know,” Arthur snapped.

“Have you been going under?”

“Of course I have.” Arthur was bristling, stressed and unable to hide it. “I’ve been dreaming ever since I found out that I’m human, how do you think Cobb’s been able to pull off so many impossible jobs?”

“Then,” Eames trailed off, too horrified by the possibilities running through his head. Arthur coming across Mal, getting maimed and tortured and God knew what else. He found his voice again and asked, “Why are you still following him?”

“Because—” Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping, looking exhausted. “He’s done so much for me, these last few years. I can’t leave Dom. Not when he’s like this.”

Eames wasn’t surprised at Arthur’s loyalty, and knew better than to argue against it. “Okay,” Eames said. “Okay. What can I do, then?”

Arthur shook his head, gaze fixed on the floor.

“Then,” Eames said slowly. “Why are you here?”

Arthur didn’t say anything, still as a statue. Then he took a deep breath, stood, and moved to settle himself next to Eames on the sofa. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned until he was pressed against Eames’ side.

“Arthur,” Eames said, unsure, holding himself perfectly still, “Arthur, what—”

“Sorry,” Arthur said, voice muffled from where he was pressing his face into Eames’ shoulder. “Mal’s so tactile, and I didn’t realize I was used to it until she was gone.” A pause. “And I missed you.”

“Really. Because the last time I saw you, you seemed ready to rip my lungs out through my throat.”

“I was angry. You left and I didn’t know why.” Arthur sighed. “Now I know.”

Eames shifted and, when the move didn’t induce any complaints, brought his arm up to lightly wrap it around Arthur’s shoulders. “And?”

“And I’m still angry at you, but I understand why you had to leave. I’ll get over it, in time. I think.”

“You think?” Eames couldn’t help the smile creeping onto his face and into his voice.

Arthur let out a short, annoyed breath. “I _know_ I’ll get over it,” he said. “Better?”

“Yes.” Eames’ smile widened as he felt Arthur tuck his head into the crook of Eames’ neck. “How long are you in town for?”

“Until tomorrow morning. Dom’s got an offer from Cobol, thinks it’ll get him what he needs to go back to the States.”

Eames frowned a little. “Cobol’s bad news,” he said softly.

“I know,” Arthur said with a sigh. “But I can’t talk Dom out of it. He’s so desperate to get home.”

“And you’re going to stick with him.”

“Of course. But if this keeps up, this thing with Mal,” Arthur said, sounding tired, “then I don’t know how long I can keep going.”

“Well,” Eames said after a moment, “I’m here if you need me. And since I’m not running, it should be easy enough to keep an eye on me.”

Eames couldn’t see Arthur’s face from this angle, but he could tell that he was smiling all the same. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Feel free to do so.”

~*

Arthur left soon after that, talking about some preliminary work he needed to do before he would even let Dom near Cobol. He said he’d keep in touch, though, and he kept that promise. In the following weeks, Eames would get a text from Arthur every now and then, either commenting on Eames’ whereabouts (“Mongolia during monsoon season? You’re insane.”) or just an update on his own work (“Failed to get the info from mark. Trying again with a higher-up in Proclus.”). They talked shop a lot, easy and impersonal, but it was comforting nonetheless. Eames looked forward to the small ping of an incoming text message, anticipated the snarky comment he’d make in return to whatever Arthur said.

Because Arthur had a personality and it shone through his words, even when he was talking about the blandest things. It was such a jarring change to the robotic version of Arthur that Eames had the most experience with. While Arthur always had quirks to his personality, he no longer considered them flaws in his programming. He was human now, unapologetically so, and Eames loved it.

The thought didn’t surprise Eames, when it first occurred to him. Arthur had always been fascinating for Eames, interesting in a way that not many others were. And Eames trusted Arthur like no one else, even after everything that happened in the last few years. He liked Arthur’s companionship, and had a feeling he’d like more than that.

Which is why, when he got a text from Arthur early one hot morning in Mombasa that read, _Cobb is coming to offer you a job. Take it._ Eames didn’t even second-guess complying.

~*

Eames feigned ignorance when Cobb showed up, asking after Arthur almost like an afterthought. Cobb gave him a strange look at that, but he didn’t say anything. Which was for the best, really. As far as Eames knew, Cobb had no idea that Arthur and Eames had met up a few months ago. Eames intended to keep it that way.

Learning Browning would be easy enough, once he got to Australia. Eames first made a pit stop in Paris, though, since it would take time to make himself the qualifications necessary for getting into Browning’s firm. True, he could forge just as easily while in Mombasa, but Paris had Arthur. If Eames were to be honest with himself, he would admit that he missed having Arthur around.

And if the barely held back smile Arthur graced him with was any indication, Eames had been missed as well.

Even though Arthur had changed so much over the last few years, some things hadn’t changed at all. He was still very sparing with affection and emotion, especially on the job. Arthur didn’t treat Eames any differently than the other team members, but it was still so familiar that it felt like coming home. It made Eames want to stay, but the physical forgeries were done, and if they wanted even a chance at getting this inception to stick, Eames’ Browning would have to be absolutely perfect.

Once Eames started working at Browning’s firm, he found that he didn’t have much time to sit around missing Arthur. Not only did he have a forgery to learn, but he also needed to pay attention to the near-palpable tension between Maurice Fischer and his son. When Eames wasn’t at the firm, he was holed up in his hotel room, practicing Browning’s tics or recording what he was observing and what might be useful for the job.

Eames was doing the latter during one of his rare mornings off when his computer indicated that he received an instant message. He raised an eyebrow—only a handful of people knew his username—before clicking on the blinking icon.

**justarthur88:** Don’t you have work today?

Eames smiled despite himself, his notes about the argument Browning and Fischer had yesterday forgotten. They could wait until later, anyhow.

**3AM35:** its my day off whats your excuse  
 **justarthur88:** I’m working a lead right now.  
 **3AM35:** its 2 in the morning in paris  
 **justarthur88:** I know.

That was Arthur for you. Time never made a difference for him. When it came to research, he would chase a lead until he got every sliver of information wrung out of it.

**3AM35:** what are you looking for  
 **justarthur88:** Fischer-Morrow financial records. Their firewall’s tough.  
 **3AM35:** ah  
 **3AM35:** breaking in just because then  
 **justarthur88:** It’s potentially useful information.  
 **3AM35:** cant just say youre doing it for the challenge  
 **justarthur88:** No.

That startled a laugh out of Eames.

**3AM35:** are you plugged in  
 **justarthur88:** Of course. I’ve told you it’s easier to hack this way.  
 **3AM35:** whats it like

The question came out of nowhere, and Eames blinked at it in surprise. He had always been curious, but also knew better than to ask such an invasive question. It was easier to forget boundaries in writing, though, and since the question was already out there he didn’t see a point in taking it back.

It took Arthur a few seconds to reply—odd, since the hardline connection usually made his responses as fast as thought—and what he said didn’t appear to be a dismissal, just a wary comment.

**justarthur88:** You’ve never asked that before.  
 **3AM35:** i know. im curious though

There was another pause. After a minute or so, Eames was starting to think that Arthur had gone entirely. He was about to sign off himself when Arthur’s reply came through.

**justarthur88:** It’s like having this huge river going through my head, with data streaming all around me. Sounds, too. It can be deafening. Looking for a specific piece of information is like following a single fish when there are millions of the same kind everywhere. Firewalls and encryptions and other security are just dams. The trick is to find a crack and widen it.  
 **justarthur88:** Each bit of data is different. Most of it is represented as text inside my head, or a voice or whatever, but sometimes it comes through as a color or sound or smell. It all depends on how easy it is for my organics to perceive what my mechanics are telling it.  
 **justarthur88:** For example, I don’t see text for this conversation. I just hear you talking.  
 **3AM35:** just my voice  
 **justarthur88:** Yeah. And a color.  
 **justarthur88:** And warmth.

Eames stared at the screen, mind blank. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that, didn’t know if affection, or a brush-off, or _what_ exactly was expected here. Arthur saved him from answering, though.

**justarthur88:** Almost done with Browning?

Thank God Arthur knew him well enough to give him an out. Eames’ relaxed his posture again, releasing tension he hadn’t been aware of.

**3AM35:** another week should do it  
 **3AM35:** maybe less  
 **justarthur88:** Good. I could use you here.  
 **justarthur88:** We all could.

Good recovery, but Arthur never said anything he didn’t mean. Eames smirked.

**3AM35:** im counting the hours darling  
 **justarthur88:** Shut up. I expect you here by Sunday.  
 **3AM35:** ill be there

~*

Eames’ welcome back to the Paris warehouse wasn’t exactly warm. Yusuf clapped him on the shoulder before turning back to his chemicals, and Cobb gave him the barest of nods, not even looking up from his desk. Ariadne, the new girl who Eames had barely talked to before heading to Australia, watched him curiously without saying anything. Eames tossed her a wink, which she raised an eyebrow at, but that was it in the way of hellos.

Arthur, though, Arthur’s gaze flicked up to study Eames’ face for the briefest moment before going back to his computer screen.

“I hope you’re not planning on leaving soon,” Arthur said. “I need to debrief you before the day is out.”

“I knew you missed me,” Eames said with a grin, “but I didn’t realize you missed me that much.”

Arthur’s lips pulled down in a scowl, but his eyes shone in amusement. “We took the liberty of giving you a desk over there,” he said, pointing to one of the farther corners in the warehouse. “Meeting’s in an hour, so you got until then to get comfortable.”

Eames gave him a mocking salute before going to his assigned desk. He could tell these next several weeks were going to be fun.

~*

The details of the plan advanced rapidly, now that the whole team was in one place. Ariadne proved her worth within the first week, developing levels that were as innovative as they were complex. She was like a younger Cobb, which was fortunate, given how Mal made it impossible for Cobb himself to even look at the designs.

Arthur was everywhere, looking up information for Ariadne or Eames and volunteering to be Yusuf’s guinea pig. He held the team together, working nonstop to make sure everyone else had what they needed to do the best work they could. Inception demanded perfection, and no one on the team knew it better than Arthur.

The stress was getting to him, though. Eames could tell in the way the line of Arthur’s shoulders became increasingly tense over the days and in the way he kept conversations short and to the point. If Arthur didn’t find some sort of stress relief soon, he was going to have a breakdown, and they couldn’t afford that on a job like this.

So Eames was more than happy to provide an outlet for Arthur, prodding and teasing until Arthur had no choice but to lash back. It worked wonders, the small outbursts over the course of the day allowing Arthur to relax. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. And Arthur appreciated it, at least, if the small grateful looks he shot at Eames at the end of each day were any indication.

It wasn’t all innocent teasing. Eames was never good at hiding it when he was interested in someone, and so he couldn’t help slipping in a few flirtations every now and then. Arthur initially met them with surprise and a sarcastic comment, but after a few days he stopped reacting, and a few days after that Arthur started to _flirt back_. Eames wasn’t expecting it, so the first time Arthur responded to Eames’ innuendo with one of his own, Eames could do nothing but gape at him.

Arthur answered Eames’ stunned look with a little smirk, and Eames realized somewhere in the back of his mind that he was in a lot deeper than he originally thought.

~*

Saito was an interesting man, to make an understatement. Eames had never worked a job where the client was so invested in what the team was doing. But, then again, he had never been on a team trying to perform inception, so he supposed Saito’s involvement was justified. And if Eames were being honest, Saito’s presence wasn’t that intrusive. He spent most of the day on his phone, or talking quietly with Cobb, or asking Yusuf questions about the Somnacin compound he was working on. In fact, Eames forgot the man was there half the time.

Which is why he started a little more than was warranted when Saito stood beside him one morning and said, “You seem to have quite an attachment to Mister Arthur.”

Yusuf was testing the efficacy of his compound against inner ear function today, and Eames had happily volunteered to supervise as Arthur was shoved over again and again and again. Arthur wasn’t as amused as Eames, picking himself up with a glare in Eames’ direction each and every time. But Eames never failed to enjoy how much Arthur expressed himself these days, so he continued to watch.

At the moment, though, Arthur was still asleep, so Eames turned to Saito and said, “What makes you say that?”

“You rarely leave each other alone. You tease him; he challenges you. It is,” Saito paused, “like pulling pigtails. That is the saying, yes?”

“It is.” Eames glanced back at Arthur, considering what he was comfortable with sharing. After a moment he said, “Are you aware of Arthur’s origins?”

“I am aware that Fischer-Morrow has a very high interest in him.”

Eames smiled the slightest bit. Saito was good with making vague statements of high significance. “I’m the one who found him. On accident, of course. That was four years ago, give or take a few months.”

Saito hummed in understanding, but said nothing. They watched Arthur’s sleeping form for a bit. “Has he asked you to deal with his problem with Fischer-Morrow?” Eames asked.

“No,” Saito said. “I do not believe he likes to ask for help.”

Eames let out a brief laugh. “You’d be right about that.” Sobering, he said, “If there was anyway you could help, even if it’s only a brief diversion—”

“If the inception is successful, Fischer-Morrow will be going through a huge internal overhaul.” Saito glanced at Eames, expression unchanging. “It is not unheard of for files and blueprints to get displaced. It could take years to relocate them, if at all.”

“Well,” Eames said. “We’ll just have to make sure we make this stick, eh?”

“Indeed.” Saito’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take this.”

“Cheers.”

As Saito stepped away, Eames redirected his attention to Arthur. Without Fischer-Morrow hounding after him, Arthur could go anywhere he wanted, _do_ anything he wanted. What would he do with that newfound freedom? Keep working in dreamshare? Go legal? Eames frowned at the thought. If that happened, then the odds of them actually seeing each other on a regular basis were very slim. That wasn’t something that exactly thrilled Eames.

“He appears stable while under,” Yusuf said, jolting Eames out of his thoughts. “Let’s try the kick now.”

Eames grinned. “By all means.”

It was ultimately Arthur’s decision, Eames thought as Arthur came awake with a flail. Eames wouldn’t argue with whatever Arthur chose. He deserved to do something that made him happy, after these last few years.

All that Eames really wanted out of this was for the inception to permanently stick. And if Arthur decided to stay with him afterwards, that would just be a pleasant bonus.

~*

When Maurice Fischer died, everything happened quickly enough that Eames didn’t have time to worry. By the time they were en route to Los Angeles and plugging into the PASIV, all Eames could focus on was the job and making sure everything went as smoothly as possible.

Which meant, of course, that the moment they got into Robert Fischer’s head, everything went to hell.

Eames didn’t think about it, didn’t stop to panic about the unexpected backlash from Fischer’s militarized subconscious. He just focused on keeping everyone alive, shooting anything that looked hostile. Saito got caught in the crossfire (tourists would be the death of them all, Eames swore), but that was fine. Death just meant waking up—easy.

Until Yusuf revealed his compound’s side effect, and then it wasn’t so easy anymore.

Eames hadn’t signed up for limbo, hadn’t planned on threatening his sanity just for a bloody paycheck. He was seconds away from telling Cobb to fuck off and finish the job without him when Arthur pulled him away from the group and farther back into the warehouse they were using as a hideout.

“Look,” Arthur said, voice low and intense. “I’m just as pissed as you are about this. Cobb had no right to make this decision without telling any of us—”

“Then you should understand exactly why I don’t want to go any further than I already have,” Eames snapped. “It’s bloody suicide—”

“So is staying here. Cobb’s right. The only way out is to make sure this inception works. We have to keep going.”

“Loyal even with limbo within arm’s reach? I’m surprised, Arthur.”

“No,” Arthur said, glaring. “It isn’t loyalty anymore. I’m done with Cobb.”

Eames blinked. “Then why—”

“To make sure we all get out of this in one piece.” Arthur hesitated, studying Eames’ face before adding, “To make sure _you_ get out of this in one piece.”

Eames was stunned into silence, and after a minute Arthur sighed and pushed past Eames. “If you weren’t kidding, with all that flirting and shit these last couple of months,” he said, “then make sure we get out of this alive.”

Eames watched as Arthur holstered his rifle, cracked open the warehouse door, and started taking down any and all of the projections he could see. With a snort and a shake of his head, Eames walked over to join him.

“I can’t really argue with that,” Eames said softly. “But honestly, if you want us to actually survive this debacle...”

With a grin and an easy twist of the dreamscape, Eames hoisted a grenade launcher to his shoulder. “You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.”

~*

When Eames blinked awake on the plane what seemed like an eternity later, he almost couldn’t believe it. His hand flew to his totem, fingers seeking out and tracing the marks he knew by heart. This was reality. He let out a weak, near-hysterical laugh and sat up to look around the cabin.

Eames’ attention went straight to Fischer. He might have been concerned for his teammates, but his first priority was the job. Even after seeing the inception happen with his own eyes, he just needed to be sure. Fischer was looking out his window, frowning, lost in thought. Eames considered that a good sign, and turned to check on everyone else.

Ariadne looked as shell-shocked as he felt, pale and drawn, her focus zeroed in on Cobb’s seat. Cobb and Saito were still asleep, dredging their way through God knows what in limbo. Yusuf was just returning to his seat with a sigh. Eames grinned. He knew all that rain on the first level meant something. Letting the grin fade a little, Eames looked over at Arthur.

Arthur was leaning forward in his seat, expression set, gaze unwavering from Cobb. He was so intent that Eames was half-worried he was going to fry half the circuits in his head. But Eames understood why Arthur was worried. After all the investment Arthur put into the job, into _Cobb_ , he expected nothing less than complete success.

Eames was beginning to consider getting up and talking to Arthur when he saw Saito stir in his seat across the aisle. His eyes opened, and he took in the plane with apparent confusion. From the movement Eames could hear in the seat in front of him and the smile growing on Arthur’s face, he gathered that Cobb had woken up, too. Saito stared at Cobb, clarity slowly returning to his eyes, before turning and grabbing the plane’s phone. Relief flooded through Eames and he glanced at Arthur, smiling.

Arthur was already watching him, expression soft and open in a way Eames had never seen. He didn’t say anything, only making eye contact and giving Eames a small nod. Eames returned the nod and leaned back in his seat. It hit Eames then: he just performed inception, everyone made it out more or less whole, and Arthur had given zero indication that he was planning on leaving now that he was free from Fischer-Morrow.

Eames grinned again, and when the stewardess came by to offer champagne, he took it. He had a lot of reasons to celebrate, after all.

~*

Getting through customs seemed like a breeze in comparison to what they all just went through. Sure, there was that tenuous moment of doubt when Cobb handed over his passport, but Eames was sure that he was in the clear. He was proven right a few minutes later at baggage claim, when he watched Cobb walk over to Miles and disappear into the crowd. Eames silently wished him luck and also promised himself he’d never take another job from the madman again.

“Where are you headed?”

Eames smiled to himself and turned his head just enough to see Arthur out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t know,” Eames said. “I didn’t really plan anything after landing in Los Angeles. Felt like I’d be jinxing the job if I did.”

Arthur looked ahead, not even glancing at Eames. “I know a place,” he said.

Eames raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Yeah. It’s in the suburbs, so it’s quiet.” Arthur switched the PASIV case from one hand to the other. “I also wanted to show you something. If you’re up for it.”

Eames tugged the case out of Arthur’s hand and placed it on the the cart with the rest of his luggage. “Lead the way, darling.”

~*

Arthur drove them out of Los Angeles proper and into the suburbs, pulling up to a small house in the middle of a quiet neighborhood about half an hour later. Eames studied the house as he hoisted himself out of the car. “Yours?”

Arthur nodded. “I bought it a couple of months after living with the Cobbs,” he said. “I needed my own space.”

“They could get a little stifling, yeah. Especially if they were being all lovey-dovey.”

Arthur’s smile was faint and fleeting. “I know. I had to deal with three years of it. And then she died and, well. This place was good for getting away from Dom for a bit.”

Arthur looked down and cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said. “I didn’t bring you here to talk about the Cobbs.”

“I would certainly hope not.” Stepping closer to Arthur, Eames asked, “Why did you ask me here, then?”

This time Arthur’s smile was stronger, even if it was still small. “Come on in and I’ll show you.”

As Eames gathered their luggage, Arthur unlocked the front door and let them in. The place was sparsely decorated, all clean lines with small splashes of accent colors here and there. Everything about it was so Arthur that Eames immediately felt at ease. 

He shoved his hands in his pockets and made a show of looking around. “Seems to be lacking a bit of creativity, if you ask me.”

“Luckily, no one asked you,” Arthur said. “Also, lack of color or weird shapes doesn’t mean it isn’t _creative_.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Arthur.”

Arthur shook his head, smiling, before opening up the PASIV and prepping the machine. “This should only take a few minutes,” he said. “Or, if you’d rather, this can wait until later.”

“Now’s fine.” Eames rolled up his sleeve and sat down on the nearby loveseat. “As long as I can take a break from dreaming for a week or three afterwards.”

Arthur smiled as he picked up Eames’ arm, fingers light and sure as he found and tapped a vein. “Deal,” he said.

Eames watched as Arthur hooked himself up and sat down next to him. “Any warnings, before we go under?”

Arthur’s fingers hovered over the plunger. “Just,” he said, “just keep an open mind.”

“Always.”

Eames watched Arthur swallow, and only had enough time for a brief thought to flit across his mind—was Arthur _nervous_?—before Arthur activated the PASIV and they were both pulled under.

~*

They were standing in the middle of a street, in front of a house not unlike the one Arthur owned in the waking world. It was a little bigger, and a little older, the color faded and a few shingles missing from the roof. It also had the flat edge of something that was less reality and more dream.

“My name is Arthur Grant,” Arthur said, staring at the house. “I was born and raised in New Jersey. This is the house I grew up in.”

Eames turned to him, brows furrowed. “Arthur—”

“When I first woke up, knowing who and what I was, I wanted to show you.” Arthur shrugged. “You left, and I couldn’t. But that impulse never left. And I’m sure you’ve been curious.”

“Yes,” Eames said, “but building from memories—”

“A calculated risk.” Arthur gave Eames a reassuring smile. “I’m not Cobb,” he said. “I won’t lose myself. Trust me.”

After the last four years, Eames at least owed him that. Nodding, he turned back to Arthur’s childhood home. “Did you have a nice family?”

“My dad died when I was four, so it was just me, my brother, and my mom. We got along well enough, so it wasn’t too bad. I behaved, got good grades in school, played sports.” Arthur snorted. “I had a rather boring childhood, honestly.”

“Boring childhoods are definitely underrated, so don’t feel bad about it.”

“I don’t.” Arthur sighed, a quiet, soft sound. “I kind of miss it, considering everything that’s happened.”

Eames watched Arthur curiously. “I’m guessing the rest of this trip isn’t going to be pleasant.”

Arthur walked up to his house’s front door. “It’s definitely going to be a little,” he said, “difficult.”

With that, he opened the door and walked into a desert.

“After high school,” Arthur said, “I enlisted. We didn’t really have a lot of money, and I didn’t want to put a burden on my mom by asking her to pay for college.”

He kicked up some dust and watched it scatter in the wind. “I was in the Green Berets. I rose in the ranks quickly enough. I was smart, obedient, and a damn good fighter. I had a great career ahead of me.”

Arthur fell silent, looking out across the flat, empty land. “And then my squad got caught in an ambush.”

Gunfire erupted over the ridge, out of sight, punctuated by shouts and screams. A second later there was the blast of an explosion, then silence. Arthur made his way over the ridge, face grim, and Eames was helpless but to follow. The view that greeted them was pure carnage, bodies scattered everywhere. Nothing moved.

“No one in my squad survived,” Arthur said. “Well, I did.”

He pointed. Eames followed his finger to a body that had fallen away from the main conflict. A body with a familiar face. It looked like a good chunk of the top left half of his head was missing.

“You might as well say I didn’t.”

Eames was speechless, unable to tear his gaze away from the younger Arthur’s body, even though he knew that Arthur was alive and well beside him. Eventually, Arthur had to tug on his arm and make him turn around.

They were in a hospital room, nondescript and tiny. Past Arthur lay in the room’s lone bed, eyes closed, hooked up to a half dozen machines.

“I wasn’t conscious for any of this,” current Arthur said beside him. “But my memory drive also had files about this part, so I’m building from that.”

Arthur approached the bed and looked down at himself, face impassive. “Most of my brain’s left hemisphere was damaged. I couldn’t even breathe on my own. I was practically a vegetable, but the military refused to let me die because I was one of the best officers they had at the time.”

The door opened behind them, and three men came into the room. They examined the Arthur in the bed, checking his pupils, his pulse, his brain activity, and a dozen other things. Afterwards they huddled, talking too low for Eames to make out, and then left the room.

“Who were they?” Eames said.

“Fischer-Morrow had a military contract at the time,” Arthur said. “They heard about me, reviewed my files, and then examined my body, all without the military knowing.”

“And?”

Arthur’s smile didn’t have a scrap of humor to it. “They decided I was the perfect candidate for a project that just reached the prototype stage.”

When they turned back to the bed, it was empty, the wires that were originally connected to Arthur strewn across the mattress and floor. Arthur reached over and flicked the lights off. When he turned them back on, they had changed locations once more.

It looked like a doctor’s examination room, save for the screens lining half of the walls. Arthur was awake now and sitting on the exam table, dressed in a hospital gown, idly swinging his bare feet. His head was shaved bald, and there were stitches all along his skull and down the back of his neck.

“This is after the surgery,” Arthur said. He was leaning against the wall, staring at his younger self. “One of the first clear memories I have after the attack that landed me in the hospital. According to the files, they replaced my left hemisphere, my brain stem, and the first six vertebrae of my spine. They left me in a chemically-induced coma until they determined that my body wasn’t planning on rejecting the machinery, and then woke me up to run some tests.”

As if on cue, the exam room door opened and a squat man in a lab coat came in.

“Hello, Arthur,” the man—presumably a doctor—said. “How are you feeling today?”

“Good,” the Arthur on the table said, still swinging his feet. “Can’t remember a damn thing, but I guess that’s par for the course when you get hit by a grenade.”

“Very true.” The doctor pulled out a penlight and shone it into Arthur’s eyes. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Arthur Grant.”

“Your address?”

Arthur told him.

“What color is the sky?”

“Blue.”

The doctor hummed, tilting Arthur’s head this way and that, seemingly satisfied when Arthur didn’t show any signs of pain. “What has four legs and barks?”

“A dog.”

The doctor let go of Arthur’s head and checked his pulse. “The cubic root of five hundred seventy-one thousand, seven hundred eighty-seven?”

“Eighty-three.” Arthur frowned, blinking. “Wait. How did I do that?”

“Never mind that,” the doctor said, pulling out a stethoscope and checking Arthur’s breathing. “Any difficulty moving, speaking, anything like that?”

“No. But, Doctor—”

“Explain the theory of relativity.”

“Which one, special or general relativity— Wait, I don’t—”

“Answer the question, please.”

“No,” Arthur said, shoving the doctor away. “Not until you explain what the hell is going on.”

“I’m just asking some basic questions to make sure your brain didn’t suffer any unusual trauma from the surgery.”

“It seems like the opposite has happened,” Arthur said with a scowl. He pushed himself to his feet.

“Hold on,” the doctor said, “you shouldn’t be up, not so soon after—”

Arthur didn’t respond, making his way past the doctor on wobbly legs. Before he could reach the door, the doctor turned and pressed a button on the wall. Two burly men entered the room and grabbed Arthur. Arthur struggled but couldn’t shake them off.

“Escort Arthur to his room,” the doctor said. “And make sure he stays there until further notice.”

The men dragged Arthur out, and he kicked and yelled the entire way. When the door closed behind them, the doctor went fuzzy and disappeared, leaving Eames and the current Arthur alone in the room.

“I refused to let them examine me until they told me what they did to me,” Arthur said. He was tense despite the fact that he was still leaning on the wall. “They ended up inducing a coma again until they could decide what to do with me. In the end, they figured it’d be easier to make me forget I was human in the first place. If I thought I was a droid, I’d be more amenable to their tests.”

Eames couldn’t help the horror that bled into his voice. “That’s utterly inhumane.”

“I’m a cyborg,” Arthur said, reaching out to a nearby table and fiddling with a scalpel. “Humane treatment isn’t mandatory when you’re not entirely human.”

“You’re human, Arthur,” Eames said softly. “I’ve known you long enough to not think any different. What they did was inexcusable.”

Arthur’s smile was tired and grateful. He put the scalpel down, looking away from Eames as he did. “The first three attempts saw me going into a panic because I couldn’t get what they were telling me to coexist with what I inherently knew. Which, of course, led to a complete removal of my memories. Once I couldn’t remember anything, I accepted them telling me I was a droid without question.”

The room fuzzed out, and when it snapped back into focus they were in what appeared to be a lab, with one wall completely covered in windows. An older man was bent over a microscope, squinting at whatever sample was on the slide.

“After initial testing was completed, Fischer-Morrow shipped me off to live with one of their older employees. They told him I was a service droid with a specialization in data analysis and storage.”

Eames smiled a little. “A point man.”

“Of a sort.” Arthur put a hand on the scientist’s shoulder. His expression was almost fond. The projection didn’t notice the touch and continued what he was doing. “His name was Craig Stephens. He was clever, and I think he figured out what I actually was. He never told me, though. Probably because Fischer-Morrow would have destroyed him.”

Stephens let out a rattling cough that lasted long enough for Eames to become concerned. Once it abated, though, Stephens went right back to his microscope.

“He died shortly after acquiring me,” Arthur said. “Lung cancer. He was aware it was coming and made sure I was sent away right before he passed. Per his request, I was sold to a black market dealer that lived nearby. I passed hands a half dozen times before ending up in Ikeda’s shop.”

The room faded one last time before settling on a grassy field, vast and empty. There was a lone tree in the distance, stunted and half-alive, but that was it in the way of scenery. Judging by the sun, it was noon or thereabouts, the sunlight almost too harsh on Eames’ skin. Arthur was standing a few feet away, hair loose and moving a little in the slight breeze as he studied his feet.

“You know the rest,” Arthur said, putting his hands in his pockets. “You were looking for a point man, you bought me, and here we are.”

“Here we are,” Eames echoed softly.

Arthur looked up at Eames, expression solemn. “Thank you,” he said. “Without you, I’d still be a human convinced he was a robot.”

“You give me too much credit,” Eames said. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them and lightly tracing his knuckles over Arthur’s cheekbone. “You became this person all by yourself, these last few years.”

Arthur reached up to hold onto Eames’ hand. “I like to think you helped a little,” he said, smiling.

“I wasn’t even there, darling.”

“I thought about you, though.” Arthur laughed and looked away, clearly embarrassed. “I was so worried you wouldn’t like the more human version of me, or that I wasn’t good enough—”

“Arthur,” Eames said, voice low and gentle.

“I know.” He pressed a light kiss to Eames’ palm. “I’d have to be blind not to know, after Paris.”

Eames could feel the broad smile that was slowly taking over his face, but he couldn’t contain it. “You know,” he said, “I’m very glad that we didn’t end up in limbo.”

“Same here,” Arthur said, grinning back. “Though if you had, I would’ve followed you down and pulled you out myself.”

“And cursed at me for the inconvenience the whole way,” Eames said with a small laugh. He traced a light thumb over Arthur’s lips and added, “I’d do the same for you. I hope you know that.”

“I’ve always known,” Arthur said. He leaned in, and Eames could feel his smile brush against his lips. “Trust, remember?”

“Yeah,” Eames said, distracted by Arthur’s closeness. “Yeah.”

Arthur let out a soft little laugh at Eames’ loss of words before finally closing the tiny space left between them. It was perfect, gentle and slow but not hesitant in the slightest. It lasted for a handful of breaths before they separated again, flushed and grinning.

“Well,” Arthur said, “I think that went all right.”

“Definitely,” Eames said. “I’d say it went better than all right, but I’d need a repeat performance to make sure.”

Arthur laughed, bright and happy. “I’d love to,” he said, “but...”

A sharp breeze tore through a field, sending the grass hissing and the lone tree swaying. The next gust was even stronger, nearly shoving Arthur and Eames off their feet. Eames took a step back, tripped, and as he fell he felt the dreamscape dissolve around him.

~*

For the second time in a day, Eames woke up feeling like the world around him had changed significantly. Turning his head, he found a drowsy Arthur smiling at him, and he had no choice but to smile back.

“C’mere,” Arthur murmured. Eames unhooked himself and obeyed, finding no reason to refuse. Their kiss was the same as the last, relaxed and easy. It was longer, though, and Eames risked deepening it for the barest second before leaning back.

“So,” he said. “What now?”

Arthur looked up at him, brows furrowed a little as he thought. “Taking a week or three off sounds really great,” he said.

“Of course it does,” Eames said. “I thought of it.”

Arthur hushed him. “What do you think of a vacation?” he asked.

“Sounds lovely. Mombasa’s good this time of year, if you wanted to visit. Or even—”

“Actually,” Arthur said, hesitant. “I was thinking of just staying here.”

“Oh.” Eames looked away, thoughtful. “Well, I suppose it has been a while since I’ve actually come to California for recreational purposes. What shall we do?”

Arthur hummed. “Why don’t we take it a day at a time,” he said. “See what happens.”

Eames smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

“Good,” Arthur said before wrapping his arms around Eames’ neck and pulling him back down. 

“Today,” he said. “I think I’m gonna keep you right here.”

“Anything you want, darling.” Eames said, letting himself be led into another kiss. “Anything you want.”


End file.
